Sophie pushed backwards. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Sorry, it’s just you seem … I don’t know … distant, somehow. Like you have something on your mind.’
‘Yeah, I do. Erin is dead. She is on my mind.’
‘That’s not what I meant—’
‘I’ve gotta go. I’m late for work now.’ Sophie turned to leave, but Karen grabbed her arm.
‘Wait.’
‘What for, Mum? I’m fine, there’s nothing to worry about.’
Karen squinted at her. ‘The fact you’ve said that makes me think there is something to worry about.’
‘No. Really not.’ The words sharp. Sophie’s eyes avoided hers. ‘Now you’d best get yourself sorted for your counselling, hadn’t you? Or are you going over to Rachel’s instead?’
Karen’s pulse skipped. Good ploy to take the attention off herself for sure.
‘I … I can’t go there. I’m not even sure I can make the session today. Your dad isn’t going to take me. I can’t …’ The usual dragging inside her stomach, the tightness in her chest, tingling lips.
Sophie sighed. ‘Where’s your bag?’
Karen pointed. Sophie picked up the paper bag from the worktop and handed it to her.
‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’ve got to get going. Sit and relax for a bit, then phone Dad. Go to one of them, either the counsellor or Rachel.’ She offered a sympathetic but firm smile. ‘You must go to one of them.’
Sophie’s heels clicked on the floor as she made her retreat, leaving Karen hunched, breathing in and out of the bag, eyes wide, pupils following her daughter’s journey out of the house.
Karen sat at the breakfast bar, slowly recovering her breathing, letting the natural rhythm of her heartbeat return. Her mind worked over it: Saturday night, Sophie’s behaviour, her words. As incoherent as she’d thought them at the time, her ramblings had continued to play over and over since the news about Erin. What does it matter she wanted to be Amy?
Rachel had been so shocked to find out Erin had dyed her hair over the weekend, had hair extensions put in. She’d resembled Amy, that’s why there had been the confusion over the identification of the body. The body of Erin. Found metres inside the wasteland near the industrial park. Also in close proximity to the nightclub. And the roundabout where the police had found Sophie.
She liked to think they had no secrets. They were close. Weren’t they? Sophie would confide in her if there was something to confide. Karen swallowed hard. But the uncomfortable lump of doubt had lodged itself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sophie
Mondays were generally sluggish to start, but so far, the store might as well have been closed; the footfall was pitiful. With tired eyes, Sophie gazed at the other assistants on the ground floor of the department: each had a similar unfocused, thousand-yard stare on their perfectly made-up faces. As if this Monday wasn’t going to go slowly enough. She allowed her head to loll back, then she shifted her weight from one leg to another and fidgeted with her gold-effect chunky necklace before letting out a loud sigh. It was only ten fifteen. Not only that, but Amy hadn’t shown up yet, her beauty counter was still unoccupied. Surely she’d be in, her message on Facebook last night had said as much. Sophie needed her to be here. Please let her just have overslept.
Irina was heading in Sophie’s direction, her thin frame carrying the latest dress from the clothes concession she worked on, located a few down from Sophie’s. On days like today they’d pass the time with idle chit-chat, and normally Sophie was glad to oblige, but she wasn’t in the mood now. Any talking she planned on doing was in order to find out what had happened on Saturday night. Meaningless chat was simply a waste of breath and precious time.
‘You lost, Sophie? You look to distance in daze.’ Irina’s once thick East European accent was diluting by the day to Sophie’s ears. ‘No Amy?’ She spread her hands, pushed her mouth down at the corners.
Sophie shook her head. ‘It’s not looking good for her turning up now, is it?’ She turned her attention to Irina. Half of her wanted to tell her about Saturday, get her thoughts. The other half didn’t want to go into it with her; it was Amy she needed to speak with.
‘She ill?’
‘Possibly. She did send a Facebook message though, said she’d be in.’ Sophie fidgeted with her fingers, Irina wincing at the sound of cracking knuckles.
‘Come now. Tell Irina all about it. Something not right with you today.’ Her dark eyes looked into Sophie’s, searching. Ten years Sophie’s senior, Irina had good instincts when it came to deciphering Sophie’s feelings.
Sophie smiled and put her hand on Irina’s forearm. ‘Thanks, but I can’t. If I start talking about it now, I’ll just cry and then I’m bound to get a customer immediately.’
‘Ha. Have you seen it?’ Irina swept her arm in front of her. ‘Place dead today.’ She accentuated the word ‘dead’. Sophie shuddered, closing her eyes tight.
‘What the matter?’
‘Really, Irina, it’s been a dreadful weekend.’ Her voice caught, her eyes blurred. She blinked rapidly.
‘Oh no, sorry, Sophie. What happened?’
‘A friend was … my friend …’ Sophie wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.
Irina pulled out a tissue from the sleeve of her dress, handed it to Sophie. ‘It clean.’
‘She was killed, Irina. Murdered.’
Irina’s hand flew to her mouth, then to her chest. ‘No way. How? Where?’
‘Here. Coleton. She was found …’ Sophie swallowed hard. ‘In the wasteland, you know, just off the roundabout before Shafters.’
‘No. Way,’ Irina repeated, her face blanched. ‘Which friend?’
‘It … it was Erin.’ A small sob burst from her, setting off the inevitable chain reaction. Irina moved in, enveloping Sophie in a tight hug, containing her shuddering body within her wiry arms.
A breezy, casual voice interrupted the embrace. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have come in.’
Sophie’s head snapped up, she pulled away from Irina. ‘Amy.’ Her voice cracked, her face crumpling again. Seeing her friend now, the first time since she’d believed her to be dead, resulted in the response she’d expected when she’d first been told about the discovery of the body. Delayed reaction was a bitch, she concluded.
A trickle of customers made their way towards them. Sophie hurried to the customer changing cubicles, checked her face in the full-length mirror, then returned to the counter with a wide, fake smile. The potential customers thankfully walked on by Sophie’s department, heading for Irina’s.
‘I’ll check back on you as soon as I can.’ She rubbed Sophie’s forearm, then rushed back to her concession, leaving Amy standing facing Sophie.
‘I’m so glad you’re okay,’ Sophie placed the palm of her hand on her chest, ‘I thought … everyone thought it was you, Amy.’
‘I know, I know.’ Amy made no move to reach out to Sophie, no hug, no trademark air kiss. ‘I had no idea of all the drama, you know how it is.’ She smiled. ‘I bumped into Jonathan after you left and one thing led to another.’
‘Jonathan from the dating site? I haven’t even met this guy yet.’ Sophie searched Amy’s eyes.
‘Yes, him. And you will, I’m sure.’ She gave a coy smile. ‘Anyway, best get to my counter before Boss Man lays into me. I’ll catch you later, at lunch.’ Before Sophie could continue, Amy swanned off. She noted her friend’s appearance was less than the usual perfect today, so, despite the perceived lack of interest or concern, it had obviously affected her. Erin and Amy weren’t – hadn’t been – the closest of friends, certainly not like Sophie and Amy, and there had been tension between the two, but surely she was feeling just as gutted as her about this.
Erin. Murdered. Sophie still couldn’t get her head around that. Being here felt surreal, Erin being dead just not credible. And now Amy was distant, behaving oddly. Nothing made any sense any more. Nothing added up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
&n
bsp; DI Wade
Erin Malone had been on Lindsay’s mind since the post-mortem. She would be now until the case was successfully closed, the murderer safely locked up. Even then she’d remain a permanent echo, her face one of a number that would be lodged within her long-term memory. Having studied the photographs her mother had provided, Lindsay could see that Erin had been pretty in life. But now, in death, the mask of fear had transformed her features, the array of post-mortem photos depicting a different Erin. Lindsay was drawn repeatedly to the girl’s bloodshot eyes. They held the image of her killer, the last thing she’d seen in this life.
Lindsay skipped breakfast, always did, she needed only coffee to kickstart her day – a large cafetiere of the stuff. She drained the last of it from her mug and slouched back, sinking into her oversized comfy armchair. The one item of her dad’s she’d managed to save from that woman he’d married during his last year of life. The cow had taken every other thing he owned: possessions, money, his house. The lot. Money-grabbing old bag.
She leant forward, re-spreading the photos on the coffee table. There really wasn’t much to go on. The post-mortem confirmed the cause of death as asphyxiation: the bloodshot eyes; the split skin at the corners of the mouth where an item, as yet unknown, had been forced inside; the purplish colour to her skin. Because of the weather conditions and the crime scene itself – Erin’s body stripped naked and left in the marshy land – the discovery of latent prints or DNA had been doubtful. To make matters worse, the pathologist had found traces of bleach. The killer had been careful, organised. Despite Lindsay being glad there was no sign of a sexual attack, this too meant there was no DNA evidence.
The only silver lining had been the fibres taken from under Erin’s fingernails. There was an outside chance they could be from material she was wrapped in to transport her body from the murder scene to the dumping ground, or from the boot of a car or the killer’s clothes. All three would be a bonus, give them something helpful to go on. Lindsay prayed the fibres weren’t merely from Erin’s own clothes, which hadn’t been recovered. There had been no skin – it seemed she hadn’t put up a fight against her abductor. Maybe she’d been drugged, or rendered unconscious. The toxicology report might give them a fuller picture when it came back.
Lindsay was due to make a public appeal later. She had confidence someone would come forward with information. Plus, there was the group of teenagers that were out with Erin on Saturday night. They must know something of significance, either from the night itself, or in relation to Erin’s background – they needed to be reinterviewed.
Currently, these two avenues were their best hope. And with the killer still at large, she needed to act quickly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Karen
Karen sipped the coffee, her hands wrapped around the mug, the warmth comforting her. Anxiety attack number one of the day had subsided, but more were likely. The very thought of facing the day alone was enough to bring on another. How must Rachel be feeling? An errant husband, her only child dead, her best friend a useless agoraphobic who couldn’t even make it to her side. She tried to recall the coping strategies she’d learned with her counsellor, but somehow, this morning, she hit a blank, not successfully remembering a single one. Ridiculous. Two years of therapy and she couldn’t summon anything? A new wave of panic flooded her mind. Think, think. She took some deep breaths, closed her eyes and envisaged her happy place. There. That was one of the strategies. Come on, Karen, you can do this.
With trembling fingers, Karen picked up her mobile. Rachel’s went straight to voicemail. Ashamed of the relief she felt, she tried the landline. A groggy voice responded.
‘Yeah.’
‘Rach, it’s me.’ There was an audible exhale of breath on the other end. Karen’s free hand clenched and unclenched, waiting for a response. The silence stretched. ‘Rach?’
‘Yeah, I’m here.’ Her voice thick, monotone.
‘How are you doing?’ Stupid question, but Karen was lost. Lost for words, the right words – for the first time in twenty-odd years, she didn’t know what to say, how to say it. She bit on her lower lip, waiting for Rachel to shout at her, to tell her what a dumb question she’d uttered.
‘I need you.’ A low, guttural moan travelled through the earpiece. Then tears. Karen tried to swallow the hard lump in her throat. Tears of her own now tracked hot paths down her cheeks. Her whole body shook.
‘I know, babe, I know.’ She fought with her own inner voice, the one repeating: I can’t do this, I can’t do this. Then she asked Rachel if she wanted to come over. Coward. Expecting Rachel to come to her was downright weak, unforgivable.
‘I can’t drive. I’m in no state … had so many sleeping pills last night … to try and block it out.’
Of course. Karen could relate to that: the need to sleep versus the inability to close your eyes. The desire to slip into unconsciousness, the wish never to reawaken into the nightmare. Would suggesting that Rachel could get a taxi anger her, upset her even more?
The phone slid in Karen’s hand, her palm slippery with sweat. She swapped hands, wiping the dampness on her jeans. ‘I … I don’t know what to do, Rach. I want to be with you, I really do—’
‘I’m on my own here,’ Rachel’s voice, pleading.
‘What about Adam? Surely he’s …’ She couldn’t finish what she’d begun. The memory of her previous call with Rachel returning like a kick to her head: he’d moved in with her. Whoever ‘her’ was.
‘Adam’s been and gone, just did what he thought was his duty to me, then went back to her.’ The bitterness was evident. ‘Karen, this is awful. I’m here alone and the emptiness is crushing me. Please come, Karen … you’re all I have.’ A choking noise, followed by a heaving, distressing cry: her suffering poured into a single animal-like howl.
Karen jerked the phone away from the source of the noise and closed her eyes tight, the horror of the situation threatening to overwhelm her. She tentatively returned the phone to her ear. ‘Rachel, come on, love … I’m here, you know I’m here.’
The quick, staccato dialogue bursting from Rachel’s mouth was difficult to interpret due to the erratic sobs, but one punctuated phrase hit home: ‘What … if it … was Sophie?’
Yes, what if it had been Sophie? Karen’s reaction to her being brought home by the police, the long hours of the night spent worrying about what had happened to her during the missing hours, were fresh memories, but unlikely to diminish over time. But at least she had come home. At least she was safe. Not dead, not gone. Poor Rachel, the memories of this time, this awful, unimaginable event, forever carved in her mind. No new, wonderful memories of Erin to replace them. Ever. What could be worse?
‘I’m so sorry, Rach, I know you’d be here straight away … I’m trying, I’m really trying to get to you …’ She let the insincere words trail, knowing they weren’t entirely truthful.
‘Couldn’t Sophie bring you? You could close your eyes the whole way here.’
Before she stopped to consider her response, she was already speaking: ‘It’s her work week, she can’t bring me.’
The ‘Oh. Right,’ which followed were two words saturated with disbelief. ‘She went to work …’ Rachel echoed.
Karen realised how painful that must be for Rachel. Surely everyone should be too struck with grief to carry on their usual routines? She was sure she’d feel the same. After her attack she had questioned others’ ability to get on with life – why didn’t it stop because her world had tipped on its axis? How could people simply not drop everything and sit with her, help her through her traumatic event? Now, looking back, it had been a small thing in comparison to Rachel’s trauma. She hadn’t ever expected to think that.
What on earth was she doing, sitting here, asking Rachel to come to her? What sort of friend was she? Mike was right to have been angry with her this morning, right to be disappointed. She was a failure.
Her thoughts were brought back to the moment; Rachel�
�s crying had started up again after her brief reprieve, her words thick with grief:
‘She was my little girl, my beautiful shining light. What am I going to do without her?’ Then anger, a white heat of rage: ‘What monster could kill my baby?’
And, Karen thought, where was this monster right now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Karen’s Monday had already veered off course and it wasn’t even midday. The call with Rachel left her shaky, anxious and guilt-ridden. Of all the times to miss counselling. She hadn’t missed a session in over a year, her routine now disrupted. It was usual for her agoraphobia to determine her schedule, along with Mike and Sophie – a lot depended on them offering their time to help. But now all three factors had dictated her day.
She tipped the dregs of coffee down the kitchen sink and contemplated the view from the large window overlooking the back garden. The grass needed cutting. Bailey would get lost in the undergrowth when he went outside to do his business. It was too wet to cut today, not that she could do it anyway. It would wait for Mike, he could do it at the weekend. Every now and then she braved going out the back, but only if it was quick – pegging out washing was the longest task she could manage without panicking. There was something about the houses either side that made her wary – too many windows, too many places someone could watch her undetected. And the six-foot fencing around the perimeter of the house might prevent someone climbing over easily, but they could hide behind it. Watching. Waiting.
No. Inside was best. She had more control over her environment inside.
As she was skipping counselling today, she ought to do something constructive. She needed to take her mind off things, avoid the horrible, dark thoughts about Erin’s death, about poor Rachel. Shopping. Yes, that would work – log on to the Tesco website and sort this week’s food shop. She wouldn’t usually do it until Mike got home on a Monday evening, but under the circumstances bringing it forward seemed a good move.
Saving Sophie Page 6
