‘I don’t think so,’ replied Sarah.
‘Okay,’ Dr Habib said empathetically. ‘There is some paperwork that you will need to complete, but I will get that prepared for you now.’
Dr Habib turned to leave the room.
‘How will you do it?’ Sarah asked.
Dr Habib stopped short of the door before turning back to answer her. Sarah’s eyes looked heavy, dark rings had formed around them but there was a determination that surprised the doctor.
‘We will make Erin as comfortable as possible with some morphine, before we remove the tube from her oesophagus and then we will wait and let nature take its course.’
‘Will she feel it?’ asked Sarah.
‘No,’ replied Dr Habib emphatically. ‘She won’t feel a thing, she will just drift away.’
‘Can I be here when it happens?’
‘It can be a very distressing thing for family members to watch,’ said Dr Habib, frowning. ‘Most people prefer to say their goodbyes and then leave the room while we remove the equipment. If you really want to be here, however, then it can be arranged.’
‘Yes,’ replied Sarah. ‘I want to be here.’
‘Okay,’ said Dr Habib, nodding. ‘I will make arrangements. Erin’s boss is still outside the room. Would you like me to send him in?’
‘Yes,’ said Sarah, glad that there was someone else in the world who seemed concerned by Erin’s demise.
16
Vincent looked at the clock on the wall behind the head of Mrs McGregor. It was just after midday and he had been sitting here with her talking non-stop, for the last ten minutes but he hadn’t really been listening. Instead, he had been reliving the moment when he had watched D.C. Erin Cooke slip away, after her life support machine had been switched off. It was a moment, he was sure, would stay with him for the rest of his life.
Unfortunately, the modern police force didn’t have time to grieve, not when there was still the case of a missing child to be solved, and so Jack Vincent was about to watch a live re-enactment of the last sighting of Natalie Barrett, as it was filmed.
‘And so, you see, Detective Inspector,’ said Mrs McGregor, recapturing his attention with her warm, Scottish brogue, ‘I am not sure that using Natalie’s classmates as part of the reconstruction is very sensible.’
‘Well I appreciate what you are saying, Mrs McGregor,’ lied Vincent, ‘but we want to make the reconstruction as real as possible, and seeing the actual children leaving the school might help trigger somebody’s memory. I believe it will be best to use her actual classmates, so we will.’
Vincent was in no mood to pander to the whimsical wishes of this wet woman and he was determined that he would get his own way, especially today.
‘And you also think that using Sarah Jenson is wise, considering what she’s been through?’ persevered Mrs McGregor, showing genuine concern for one of her members of staff.
‘I spoke with her earlier and suggested we use an actor in her role,’ he fired back, ‘but she was adamant that she wanted to help find out what had happened to Natalie, and would play herself. To be honest, this is a common trait in grieving people; they find it easier to bury themselves in work, to avoid dealing with the emotions of what they are going through.’
Mrs McGregor didn’t really look satisfied with either response, but guessed she was on a hiding to nothing if she continued to argue, so she waved him away dismissively. Vincent was happy to leave the room and to get the filming underway. He left Mrs McGregor’s office, heading towards Sarah Jenson’s classroom. One of his team had been briefing the children in what they were expected to do, since Vincent had arrived at the school. They had been briefed to pretend that it was in fact the end of the day, and not lunchtime, so that when the school bell sounded, they would pack up and head for the school’s exit, instead of for the playground. The children were acting like excited beavers, with all the camera crew milling about hanging cables, setting up microphone recording equipment and testing the lighting. In truth, the only person not excited by the presence of a film crew was Vincent himself. For him, it was a means to an end.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, approaching Sarah.
She pulled her lips tight, in an effort to force a smile, but it was clear she was still in shock with the morning’s events.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she responded.
‘Good,’ said Vincent, eager to press on. ‘We want you to carry on like you did on Friday. It is important that you speak, not that your voice will necessarily be used for anything more than background noise in the final cut, but it needs to look real.’
‘I understand,’ she said, nodding. ‘Where is the girl who will be playing Natalie?’
‘She is receiving final instructions from the director and will be here in a minute,’ he replied.
‘Where did you find her?’
‘The film crew provided her,’ he replied. ‘I guess she is a young actress. Not really sure, to be honest. We gave them a picture of Natalie, along with estimated sizes and then they produced the little girl.’
‘She looks quite like her,’ said Sarah as a little blonde haired girl entered the classroom with a man in a scruffy t-shirt and jeans, whom Sarah knew was the director. The little girl sat down in Natalie’s chair, and said hello to the other children around her.
‘Are we ready to go?’ asked the director, approaching Sarah and Vincent.
‘I believe so,’ replied Vincent and allowed the director to steer him towards a space at the back of the room where he could observe the scene.
The decision to film a reconstruction had been the brainchild of D.C.I. Young, Vincent’s overbearing boss. He detested working for a woman, especially one who had spent more of her career in a classroom than out on the streets fighting actual crime. She was one of a wave of new senior officers who had entered the force via graduate schemes. She had put a call in to an acquaintance at the BBC and they had agreed to send a film crew down and film the scene, which would be broadcast in the next edition of Crimewatch in a week’s time. An interview with Vincent was required as part of the filming, which he was dreading, but knew that, as lead officer, was essential. That would come once the reconstruction had been filmed. A second unit was already set up outside the school gates to capture the children as they streamed out of the school. Parents had been contacted and asked if they could spare the time to collect their children for the purposes of filming. Vincent had been surprised by the positive response received: it seemed that there was no end to the lengths people would stoop to in order to get their face on the television.
‘Action,’ shouted the director and Sarah began to speak to the children about the story she had just read, not that she had actually read a story, but the children had been briefed to play along. Two minutes later the school bell sounded and the children packed their things up, grabbed their bags and headed for the cloakroom, before proceeding to the exit. The director had decided to film the sequence in a continuous take and had a monitor with him in the classroom, which gave a live feed of what was being filmed outside.
The little girl playing Natalie, whose real name was Emily, had been told to leave the school slowly, and to take up a standing position next to the school gates. The plan was to film the scenes of Natalie walking from the school, once the director was satisfied with the group shots. That way, all the children would be back inside, out of shot, which is how it would have been on Friday afternoon.
‘Cut,’ shouted the director, and then spoke into a walkie-talkie that linked him with the second unit director, outside, ‘Let’s go again. This time I want you to zoom in on the face of Emily as she exits the school.’
A crackling from the radio evidenced acknowledgement, and the school children slowly began to return to the classroom to re-film the shot.
The director was finally satisfied with the fifth take and advised the children that they could now commence their lunch-break. With nothing better to do, and in the interests of not being left alone to
consider the implications of this morning, Sarah moved outside with the film crew to watch the filming of the Emily-only scenes.
‘Hello, stranger,’ said a familiar voice behind her.
Sarah turned to see the smiling face of Johan Boller.
‘Johan, what are you doing here?’ Sarah asked, with a confused look on her face.
‘The police asked me to come down and watch, to see if I could remember anything else’
‘Oh I see,’ said Sarah. ‘That makes sense, I guess. Did you remember anything else??’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Oh,’ said Sarah, ‘at least you tried. Maybe you’ll remember something later. You know, like when you stop thinking about something, and suddenly the answer jumps out at you?’
‘Like déjà vu,’ he said nodding.
‘Not exactly,’ replied Sarah but decided not to try and explain what she meant.
A young looking man in a baseball cap ran over to where they were stood.
‘Mr Boller,’ said the young man, ‘the detective wants to know what you thought.’
‘I better go,’ Johan said to Sarah. ‘It was good to see you again.’
‘You too,’ said Sarah, instinctively and then he was gone. She checked her watch. It was nearly one o’clock but she still didn’t feel very hungry. She was about to walk back into the school, in the direction of the staff room when a thought struck her. It was a memory that she had long since buried in her sub-conscious, but which had suddenly decided to re-appear.
Sarah didn’t give it a second thought as she opened up into a sprint and ran towards the school. The memory was a moment of total clarity and she knew it was time to go home: not the home she had shared with Erin in Southampton, but the home she had been raised in back in Fortuneswell on the island of Portland. If she was quick enough she could be on a train heading for Weymouth inside an hour. She would phone Peggy McGregor once she had her ticket.
17
Sarah managed to catch the Weymouth-bound 14:25 train service from Southampton, and with a small gym bag filled with enough clothes to last until the weekend, she was on her way. The journey was likely to take about ninety minutes so Sarah had bought a magazine and chocolate bar to try and help pass the time. The magazine wasn’t her usual choice, filled with photos of celebrities in the latest fashion trends, but it had been on special offer and she had decided she wasn’t in the mood for reading, so looking at the photos would have to do. But despite her efforts to concentrate on the glossy images, her mind kept returning to the memory that had entered her mind back at the school. No matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the name Ryan Moss.
Sarah had known Ryan since she was eleven, having attended the same secondary school as him. He had been a popular lad, competing in the school’s football and cricket teams and being brighter than the average sports jock that attended the school. He was six-foot tall with broad, powerful shoulders, a slightly crooked nose, the result of a sports injury, and with a wave of wispy, brown hair atop his head. He had not been the best-looking lad at the school, but he did have his fair share of admirers, including Sarah for a brief time. They had dated during sixth form, a time when Sarah was still trying to convince herself that her attraction to other girls was just a phase. As an awkward teen, she had thrown herself at several boys to try and prove to herself that she was ‘normal’ but by the time she had left sixth form, she had found the courage to accept who she was. Looking back on it now, she couldn’t help but laugh at how silly her behaviour had been.
An annual prom was held every year at the school for students in their final year. Students in the first year of sixth form were allowed to attend, but only if they were there as a date to one of the final year students. Ryan had asked Sarah if she would go with him. He was in the year above and as they had been on several dates and were nearing the point of becoming an item, she had agreed, nearly to her detriment. She was excited at being one of the few girls in her year to be attending the event, and her mother had happily bought her a pretty blue dress for the occasion.
Two weeks before the big night, Ryan started acting very strangely. He missed a couple of days’ school without explanation and had been spotted, unwashed, down at the park, drinking cheap cider. He was back at school by Thursday but seemed detached and not willing to really talk to his friends. He avoided Sarah, making excuses to be somewhere else whenever she tried to instigate conversation with him. He was referred to the school’s psychologist, and she made recommendations that he see somebody who could devote more time to seeing him.
On the night of the prom, Sarah didn’t know whether Ryan was still taking her or not as she had been unable to get a response from him. Her mother had suggested she get ready, just in case Ryan showed up. So, Sarah put on the blue dress and allowed her mother to curl her hair and apply a limited amount of make-up and then she sat and waited. Sarah was in tears by nine o’clock when Ryan had still not shown up or phoned to say what was going on. Sarah’s father had been working a night shift so Sarah’s mum had cracked open a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates and had set Sarah straight on a few things about how boys behaved and how even as men, they could still be utter bastards. It had made Sarah laugh seeing her mother so relaxed and liberal in her use of expletives. In fact, that was probably Sarah’s fondest memory of her late mother.
A little after ten, Sarah’s dad had rung home in a panicked state, eager to know where Sarah was. Her mother had explained that she was at home as Ryan hadn’t showed up to collect her. Her father had been a relieved man, and had then advised her mother that Ryan had been arrested for attempted murder.
The story was all over the local newspapers for weeks. Apparently, Ryan’s mental state had been far worse than the school psychologist had estimated. A physician later recorded that, in the two weeks prior to the attempted murder, something had snapped in Ryan’s head and he had entered a particularly dark place in his mind. He had turned to drink to deal with what he was going through, which in turn had led to the truancy and shunning of friends. On the day of the prom he had been seen leaving his home at the crack of dawn, and had not been spotted again until just after six p.m. the same day. He was down at the park again but this time he was not alone.
Chloe Greene was something of a celebrity in Portland, having been crowned ‘Young Miss Portland’ in a local beauty pageant. She was only ten years old and, even to this day, Sarah had no idea how the pageant hadn’t been banned for the exploitation of youngsters. But it was an old-fashioned competition, set in an old-fashioned town. The winner of the pageant was responsible for making a series of public appearances, over the course of the year, including opening church fêtes, attending charity days and of course handing over the winner’s crown at the following year’s pageant.
Chloe had been out playing with classmates, when the time arrived for them all to return home. She too lived in Fortuneswell and had begun the slow journey home, up the steep hill. Her friends lived in the opposite direction and bid her farewell, confident that she would arrive home safely as she had done dozens of times before. Unfortunately, Chloe ran into an unhinged Ryan Moss, who had been knocking back cheap whisky for most of the afternoon. Exactly what happened, between Chloe waving goodbye to her friends and later being found with Moss, may never be known. Ryan was undergoing a full psychotic breakdown and was unable to tell police later what had happened. Chloe was so traumatised by the events that she could not give an accurate account of how, or why, she had agreed to go to the park with Ryan Moss.
When Moss had been found at the park just after six, his t-shirt had been covered in blood and he had been knelt down beside Chloe’s body. Bruising around her throat showed that somebody had attempted to strangle her having already raped her, causing a massive haemorrhage. Initially, witnesses thought that Moss had actually killed Chloe, and it was only when paramedics arrived on scene that it was discovered she was still breathing. She was rushed to hospital and doctors were able to stem
the bleeding and save Chloe’s life. Unfortunately, such inoperable damage had been done to Chloe’s sexual organs that it was predicted she would probably never be capable of conceiving a child later in life.
Moss was immediately taken into custody and evaluated by a team of psychiatrists from London, to determine whether he was capable of appearing in court. Despite question marks remaining over his mental state he was deemed fit to stand trial and was sentenced to twenty years behind bars. As Moss had turned eighteen during his trial, his sentence was to serve time in adult prison and this had led to his residence in HMP Verne ever since. Chloe didn’t attend the following year’s ‘Miss Young Portland’ pageant to hand over her crown as she was undergoing rehabilitation at a specialist hospital, somewhere up North, where her parents had relocated to. Sarah had no idea what had become of her, but deep down hoped that she would one day find peace.
As for Sarah, herself, she was quizzed by the police to see if she knew what Ryan was capable of and, was questioned even more extensively by her friends at school when she returned. The overall consensus was that she had been very lucky to have avoided the clutches of ‘The Psycho’ as he had become known. Sarah had done her best to put the whole incident behind her and had vowed to live her life to the full, which had probably helped influence her decision to leave home, to attend university. She had been keen to reinvent herself, in more ways than one, and so the memory of Ryan Moss had been buried deep in her subconscious for many years. That is, of course, until she had seen the actress playing Natalie walking down the road from the school. It had reminded her of a picture she had seen in a newspaper all those years ago of a smiling Chloe Greene, totally unaware of what fate had in store for her.
18
Sarah’s train arrived at its final destination, Weymouth, just before four p.m. The train station was located on the edge of the strip of shops that makes up Weymouth’s main high street and about a five minute walk from the beach. The island of Portland, which was linked to Weymouth by a long road, was the other side of the town, past the main multi-storey car park. Fortuneswell, on the island of Portland was a good twenty minute drive from the train station in Weymouth so Sarah decided to use a taxi to make the journey up there.
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