The Sixth Window

by Rachel Abbott

  ‘Bernie, I need you,’ she whispered, longing for her husband and the reassurance he had given her.

  If she lost Scarlett, there would be nothing left for her.

  12

  In spite of the heat from the sun there was a cool breeze on top of the building, and Becky stood to one side while Tom and Dave Warner discussed the fall. She wasn’t really listening, and the sound of their voices washed over her. The climb up those few flights of stairs had taken more out of her than she wanted to admit, but now that she was here she just wanted to think about the case.

  The area where the girl had stood before jumping, or possibly before being pushed, had been marked and protected. The flat concrete of the roof was being examined for footprints, signs of a struggle or any evidence that may have been dropped either by the girl or anyone with her.

  Becky blocked out the sound of voices and tried to put herself into the mindset of a girl who thought this was her way out of a life she no longer wanted to live. If DI Warner was right about it being suicide, what could have been so bad for this child? She looked to be about thirteen, but looks could be deceptive and Becky knew she could be a couple of years older or younger than that. When Becky was thirteen she had tried to look eighteen, and now she wondered why on earth she had done that. Why were people always driven to be something they were not, spending their early years wanting to look older and their later years striving to look younger? It was total madness.

  She was standing about two metres from the edge, and took a step closer to the low wall that edged the flat roof. She ran through the alternative scenarios in her head. If the girl had been running, perhaps escaping from someone, it would have been easy to trip and fall to her death. She heard Tom saying that if she had been pushed she would probably be further away from the building, but she was a slight girl. Quite tall, but not heavy, so someone could have suspended her over the wall and then dropped her. Surely that would have produced the same result as jumping?

  The experts would be able to tell, and she was going to have to wait to hear their verdict. All they could do for now was come up with theories, and Becky realised she was trying to find a reason for this child’s death that didn’t involve her jumping. The thought of how she must have been suffering to have believed this was her only way out was almost impossible to bear, and she tried to push from her mind the agony of those last seconds when the girl had known she was going to die. Earlier in the year Becky had nearly lost her own life, and she could vividly recall the moment when she was sure her life was over. If it hadn’t been for Mark and Tom, she too would now be dead.

  ‘Becky, we’re going back down now. Are you coming?’

  Becky shook herself to bring her head back to the here and now and followed Tom towards the stairs.

  ‘Have you come to a conclusion?’ she asked the two men.

  Tom looked at Dave Warner, offering him the chance to give his opinion between chews of his gum, and Becky looked away from the unpleasant sight of the inside of the man’s mouth.

  ‘Until we get more details from the pathologist and the forensics are finished, it’s hard to say. But there’s nothing to suggest that it was anything other than a suicide.’

  At that moment DI Warner’s overweight sergeant came panting up the stairs. ‘Just got the word, boss,’ he said, gasping for air. ‘A girl’s been reported missing. Fifteen years old – that’s all we know for sure. It’s being followed up to get more details, to see if it’s her.’

  Becky didn’t know whether to be relieved that they had a possible identification or not. All she knew for sure was that someone was going to be devastated by this news.

  *

  Given the circumstances surrounding the death of the girl, Tom was going to have to take over as senior investigating officer. DI Warner would be kept in the loop until it was established whether this was murder, accident or suicide, but it was Tom’s responsibility to inform the parents of the missing girl that a body matching their daughter’s description had been found.

  Tom was dreading accompanying the parents to the mortuary. It had always been one of the worst aspects of his job, knowing that they would be praying the police had got it wrong – that it was some other poor girl. His understanding of their feelings had intensified since he had found himself in a similar position a few months ago when asked to identify the body of someone he cared deeply about.

  Becky parked the car as close as she could to the girl’s home, and Tom took a moment to get his thoughts together and prepare himself for what he was about to do.

  ‘Do you want to sit this one out, Becky?’ he asked, hoping his voice conveyed his concern. He had been fully aware of Becky’s detachment when they were at the scene and knew that, as well as the physical symptoms she had suffered, she had been through the mill mentally too.

  ‘No. Do you?’ She turned to him with her mouth in a hard line and her chin raised determinedly.

  He noticed her face flush slightly, as if she was aware of how inappropriate her response had been, but he let it pass.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  They both got out of the car and closed the doors quietly. They didn’t speak as they made their way to the address that they had been given. Tom glanced at Becky again, but she didn’t look back. He could see the rigid line of her jaw and knew that, like him, she was holding herself as steady as she could, because the moment he pressed that bell, someone’s life was going to change forever.

  13

  Natalie was pacing up and down the small sitting room, wondering when someone would have something to tell her. She kept looking at her phone, checking repeatedly that she hadn’t accidentally switched it to silent. So when the entry buzzer sounded she was taken by surprise.

  For a moment she didn’t move, wondering who it could be. It rang again. Three impatient bursts, and she rushed towards the small screen.

  Whoever had pressed the bell had their back to the camera, but she would have recognised the grainy image of that head anywhere. She pressed the entry button and flung open the door, waiting, praying that she was right.

  Finally a tall slim figure appeared around the corner of the passageway backlit by the courtyard windows. The harsh white lighting sprung into action.

  ‘At last!’ Scarlett shouted as she walked along the corridor towards Natalie. ‘Were you still asleep? I thought you were never going to get up.’

  She strode past her mum and dumped two carrier bags on the kitchen worktop.

  ‘I couldn’t find the key so I thought I’d better stay out until you were up – but still not dressed, it seems.’

  Natalie had still said nothing and was staring at her daughter. Suddenly the tears began to flow. ‘Oh, thank God. Scarlett, where have you been? You scared the life out of me. I’ve phoned everybody I could think of to find out if they’d seen you.’

  Scarlett’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Mum, what’s going on with you? I’m fifteen, not five. I woke up. You were asleep. I didn’t want to put the TV on and wake you so I went for a walk. Oh – and I took some money from your purse because I thought you might want breakfast. I hope that’s okay. I bought a few bits of other stuff too, seeing as how all we seem to have is a bit of cheese and a few slices of bread in the fridge.’

  Natalie recognised this as a peace offering, and somehow she had managed to blow it. She walked across to where Scarlett was standing and wrapped her arms around her.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  She was relieved to feel her daughter’s arms returning the hug, but then Natalie’s phone rang. Not taking her eyes off Scarlett, who she wanted to carry on squeezing tight until the girl ran out of breath, she answered the phone.

  It was the police.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry to have troubled you, but my daughter’s just this minute returned home. I’m really sorry. It’s just that we’d had a row, and I wasn’t sure what she might have done, and…’

  S
he turned away from Scarlett’s horrified stare, but the policeman was kind and told her it was no trouble. She rang off and turned back towards Scarlett, whose mouth had dropped open as she listened to her mother.

  ‘You didn’t call the police, Mum? Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I did. They were just ringing me back to check a few details before circulating your photo,’ Natalie said, a sheepish note in her voice. ‘And now I need to phone all your friends to let them know you’re safe.’

  ‘That is so embarrassing. Why did you have to do that? I’d have been back sooner, but I couldn’t remember the code for the main door and I forgot to take that card thing that Cliff gave us. So I had to go and find him, but that’s another story.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Scarlett had started to unpack the odd assortment of groceries she had bought, but she stopped and looked at her mum, her face a picture of concern.

  ‘I rang Cliff’s bell, and this little tubby guy with greasy hair came to the door. I asked for Cliff and he told me that he’s in hospital. He was mugged last night. He’s in a bad way from what the man said, and if it hadn’t been for his particularly hard skull, he’d be dead apparently. He’s in a coma, Mum. Why would anyone do that?’

  Natalie looked at her daughter’s innocent face, still so young in many ways and still struggling to understand why terrible things happen to good people.

  ‘I don’t know, love. How dreadful. He seemed such a nice man and was so helpful. Did the new bloke say what happened?’

  ‘Not really. His name’s Martin, and he wasn’t at all friendly. He refused to give me the code. Said he didn’t know me from Adam. That’s why I had to ring the bell to get in. I should have done that in the first place, but I didn’t know if you were still asleep.’

  Natalie spared a thought for poor Cliff but couldn’t stop herself wondering if she had done a really stupid thing bringing her daughter to live – even temporarily – in central Manchester, where they knew nobody.

  ‘Scarlett, I don’t think you should go out on your own at odd times, sweetheart. We’re not living in a sleepy village here. All kinds of things can happen.’

  Scarlett put a bottle of HP sauce on the counter rather more heavily than was entirely necessary, the friendly tone replaced by one of impatience at her overprotective mother.

  ‘It wasn’t an odd time, Mum. It was eight o’clock in the morning. And if you remember it was in that same sleepy village that my dad and puppy were knocked down and killed by some kids driving a stolen car.’

  Natalie looked at her daughter’s eyes, shining brightly with unshed tears as she was once again reminded of that day.

  Keeping anyone safe was never easy. All a mother could do was her best, and hope that everything she tried to teach her children helped them through the most difficult times in their lives. And Natalie prayed that after everything that had happened in Scarlett’s short life – losing her father and now the tangled mess with Ed – the road ahead for her daughter would be less troubled.

  14

  The house that Tom and Becky were standing outside was the last in a cul-de-sac of identical semis that reminded Tom of the first home he had bought with his ex-wife, Kate, nearly twenty years ago. Flat-fronted, with a stretch of white-painted boards cladding the wall between the ground and first-floor windows, the houses had probably been built some time in the ’70s, and he knew exactly what the interior layout would be. He had been happy in that house, and Lucy had been brought up there for the first few years of her life.

  Now, if their provisional identification of the girl proved to be accurate, he and Becky were about to break the worst news that any parent could ever receive, and he had a feeling that this house would never see true happiness again.

  Their knock was answered by a woman who looked to be in her early forties, wearing a below-the-knee red cotton dress with white buttons up the front. Her hair was tied back loosely and her skin was free of make-up.

  ‘Good afternoon. We’re here to see Mr and Mrs Bale. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Tom Douglas, and this is—’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ the woman said, her voice abruptly cutting off his introduction. From her wide-eyed stare, it was clear that she had taken in the gravity of the situation. Nobody of his rank would turn up to take a missing-person report.

  Tom resisted the temptation to glance at Becky, and stepped to one side to let his inspector go ahead of him into the house. As soon as he followed her over the threshold the door was closed behind him and the woman led the way into a through-lounge and dining room.

  A man was seated on a brown leather sofa, his head bent and a large white handkerchief clasped in his hands.

  ‘Gregory, there are two police officers here to see us,’ the woman said, taking a seat next to her husband and indicating with her hand that Tom and Becky should take the remaining two chairs in a room overcrowded with heavy furniture that looked more comfortable than it was.

  ‘Is it Jennifer? Have you found her?’ Mr Bale seemed the far more concerned of the two, his wife clearly working hard to control any emotion she was feeling.

  Tom introduced himself and Becky to Mr Bale, and this time managed to complete his sentence.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Bale, I am so sorry to tell you that a young girl matching Jennifer’s description has been found close to some disused flats a couple of miles from here. I’m afraid she fell from the roof and didn’t survive the fall.’

  There was a gasp from Mr Bale.

  Tom carried on, not wanting to prolong this. ‘From the description you gave of what your daughter Jennifer was wearing – cut-off dark blue jeans, a pink T-shirt with a pattern of white cats and no jewellery – and the photograph that you emailed, we believe there is a strong possibility that the girl we found is Jennifer, although of course we need a formal identification to be sure.’

  Mr Bale raised his head, and Tom looked into the sallow cheeks and haunted eyes of the girl’s father. Whatever the cause of Jennifer’s death, this couple would have to cope with a world without their daughter, and their lives would never be the same.

  ‘Was it an accident, or did someone push her?’ Mrs Bale said, her voice clipped.

  Tom knew that at some point Mrs Bale would inevitably have to give way to her grief, but for now she was holding herself together.

  ‘We’re not sure what happened yet, and of course we’re looking into every possibility. But as far as we can tell – and there’s a way to go before we can be certain – there was nobody else present.’

  ‘So it was an accident?’

  ‘Possibly. But at the moment we can’t find any reason why a young girl would have gone into a very unpleasant derelict block of flats and up onto the roof. Do you know why that might have happened? Or do you know of anything that was making your daughter unhappy at this time?’

  The couple stared at him, their mouths slightly open. Then Mrs Bale looked at her husband briefly before turning back towards Tom and Becky, her eyes flashing and the anger rolling off her in waves.

  ‘I know what you’re getting at, but that is a truly wicked thing to suggest. If this poor child has taken her own life, it can’t be Jennifer. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Our daughter wouldn’t kill herself. It’s not possible. So you can forget that right now and start looking at what really happened. If you’re thinking of taking the easy way out, don’t.’ The final word was almost spat at Tom.

  Becky leaned forward. ‘I understand how you feel, Mrs Bale. It must be very difficult to imagine that your child might have taken such a decision.’

  Mr Bale looked at his wife as if waiting for her to respond. She didn’t glance his way, but spoke directly to Tom.

  ‘Our faith doesn’t allow it. Jennifer knows what something like this would do to our family, and how others would view us. It’s a sin to take your own life. Life is a sacred gift. Suicide is self-murder. She wouldn’t do it. I’m telling you, she didn’t kill herself.’ Her voi
ce had become flat and unemotional, each word clipped as if her initial fury was spent, to be replaced with disgust at the mere suggestion.

  Mr Bale had been watching his wife as she spoke, but now he sat back and looked at the wall above Tom’s head, unable to meet his eyes. His brow had furrowed, and Tom could see that he wasn’t going to be able to hold back his grief for much longer. They needed to arrange for this couple to formally identify the body, and then leave them to their mourning. But if they were going to investigate this death properly, Tom needed some information.

  ‘Would you mind talking to me about your daughter? Can you tell me about her friends, what she did in her spare time and so on?’

  ‘She was a good daughter,’ Mrs Bale said. ‘She knew what was expected of her.’

  Tom had no idea what that meant. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about her that might help us to trace her movements – to discover why she was at the derelict flats? Did she have a boyfriend, do you know?’

  Mrs Bale glanced at her husband with her head slightly to one side, as if giving a silent order to him to speak. He lifted his head and appeared to look at Tom, but he was still focusing on the wall behind his head.

  ‘She didn’t have a boyfriend. She’s not old enough. I haven’t given my permission, and I won’t for a few years.’

  If Tom had ever seen an example of a human ventriloquist’s dummy, this was it. He looked at Mrs Bale. She was looking down, smoothing the red dress over her thighs as if satisfied with her husband’s response. He was certain they were going to get nothing useful out of these two while they were in the same room.

  Becky had clearly picked up his silent message. ‘Could I make you both a cup of tea or coffee?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Bale, would you mind showing me where the kitchen is?’

  Mr Bale quickly pushed himself up from the sofa before his wife could respond. ‘It’s all right, Linda. I’ll go.’