by M. A. Hunter
‘This is what they should have been doing fifteen years ago,’ Cheryl comments loudly enough for the officer at the cordon to hear. She explains who I am, and once my ID has been checked and I’ve signed in, I’m granted entry, though he warns us both that we won’t be allowed past the next cordon. As Cheryl leads me towards Diane’s house, I suppose I’m surprised at just how normal the street looks. I could be on any average residential road in any average town in the south of England: the houses are a string of semi-detached three-bedroom properties, each with a small lawn at the front, bordering a concrete driveway; there are ordinary-looking cars parked on most of the driveways and you’d never know we are in the heart of a working armed-forces area. I can just make out the outer cordon about a hundred metres from Diane’s house.
‘Our house was along there,’ Cheryl comments when she sees me looking. ‘Of the four families, we lived closest to those bloody woods, but all were within a five to ten-minute walk.’
There are pairs of eyes at every window of every house, watching the activity. If they don’t already know, it won’t be long until they figure out why the police are here. I hurry after Cheryl, hoping my presence here hasn’t been noted. Diane has enough going on today without me adding to the distraction.
A uniformed officer answers the door but allows us through when he sees Cheryl.
‘That’s PC Plod,’ Cheryl jokes, before leaning closer to me. ‘That’s not his actual name but he’s been posted here to keep us informed of progress, or something. Not very talkative but I love his deep and brooding eyes.’
He doesn’t respond, simply closes the door behind us and remains on guard on the doormat. Presumably he’s some kind of family liaison or close equivalent.
Diane’s eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are red and puffy when we find her hunched over on the sofa in her otherwise well-maintained living room. She is wearing a thick dressing gown, despite the stifling warmth of the room, and I quickly relieve myself of my coat before sitting at the dining table in the corner
Cheryl squats down next to her friend and rests a hand on hers. ‘I take it there’s been no news whilst I was out?’
Diane has a lost look in her eyes; they’re open but they’re not focused on the present. She shakes her head but doesn’t speak. I can only imagine what she must be going through. When I last met her, she was so convinced that Sally must have run away. It’s probably easier than admitting the possibility that she died all those years ago. The human mind can be cruel in that way: if you believe in something for long enough, it becomes the truth in your mind. To then have that truth whipped from beneath you like a rug must have her in serious turmoil.
She’s probably trying to recall the last time she saw Sally… what they spoke about, whether she could have said or done anything differently to stop the inevitable occurring. I know, as I have asked myself those questions thousands of times before when thinking about Anna. There is nothing I can say or do in this moment to bring her any relief. All we can do is listen and offer words of encouragement, though they’re worth nothing. For Diane Curtis, it is just a waiting game.
Cheryl stands, announcing that she’s going to put the kettle on, but nods for me to follow her through to the kitchen. Once inside, she closes the door to, so we won’t be overheard by Diane. ‘Who do you reckon did it then?’
It isn’t clear whether she’s just after a bit of salacious gossip or is asking me before bowling out with an opinion of her own. I don’t have to wait long to find out.
‘Sam said you was asking questions about Bill Havvard’s son, the drama teacher? You reckon it was him then, do you?’
Something still doesn’t sit right with me about that possibility but I can’t put my finger on what.
‘I don’t think we should be making assumptions about anything yet, Cheryl,’ I casually chastise. ‘Let’s just wait and see what the police find. You never know, they might come away empty-handed.’
She scoffs. ‘I doubt it. That Rimmington was here first thing, telling Diane that they’d got hold of some specialist equipment that can search underground for levels of disturbance. Apparently builders use it for checking foundations. She reckoned that if Sally is buried in the woods, it’s only a matter of time until they find out where. They sent sniffer dogs in to try and narrow down where to search, and based on some witness statement, they now know where our girls were right before it happened.’
I choose not to mention that the witness statement came from Jane.
‘Once they find the location,’ Cheryl continues, ‘Rimmington said it would take several hours to recover the body, depending on how far down she’s buried. They have to be careful to preserve the evidence, or so she said.’
‘Even so, there’s nothing to say for certain that Sally is buried in those woods,’ I challenge. ‘Even if she was killed that night, her body could be buried anywhere.’
Cheryl’s eyes widen. ‘You mean under a patio, like in that old TV show?’
This was not the reaction I was hoping for.
‘Not necessarily, but yes, within reason. We’re assuming a killer would choose to bury her in the woods where they could work undisturbed and out of sight, but that’s not to say for certain that she’s there.’
Natalie’s words are there in my head again. You need to find her. Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.
Natalie was so certain that they’d caused Sally’s disappearance that she was prepared to end her own life to make amends. I can’t help wondering whether we’d all be here now had Natalie not committed suicide, so in some way her wish is coming true.
The sound of the front door opening is followed by footsteps stomping through the hallway towards the living room. Cheryl whips the door open and we catch a glimpse of a man in army fatigues dropping to his knees at Diane’s feet. He buries his head in her lap and she strokes the back of his dark grey hair.
‘Owen’s home,’ Cheryl says, surging forwards, but he turns his head at the sound of her voice.
His face is a rage of red pain and anger. ‘What the hell is she doing here?’
Cheryl stops still, a rabbit in the headlights.
‘I called her,’ Diane soothes, rubbing her hand over the back of his head once again, forcing him to face her. ‘I don’t care what you say, Owen, she’s my friend and with you away, I needed someone here with me.’
‘I came back as soon as I heard,’ he says, meeting her gaze, brushing his fingers over her raw cheek. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner.’
There is obviously love still between these two. After Anna disappeared, my parents’ marriage swiftly followed suit. They both outwardly blamed the other but I’m sure that deep down neither could forgive themselves for not being more cautious. Tragedy has the ability to break a marriage but it can equally forge the bond in steel; it appears the latter happened for these two.
‘Have the police said whether…?’ Owen tries to ask, unable to complete the sentence.
Diane shakes her head, fighting the urge to cry again. ‘Not yet.’
‘But they think…?’
This time Diane nods and tears do break free of her eyes.
Owen leaps back to his feet. ‘I need to be there; I need to see with my own eyes. Stay here and I’ll tell you as soon as I hear.’
Diane reaches for her husband’s hand but he is already too far away.
‘I want you to escort me to the scene,’ we hear him bark at the PC at the door. ‘I want to speak to whoever is in charge. If you believe my daughter’s remains are nearby, then I want to be there when she’s recovered.’
The PC is doing his best to pacify him but eventually relents and the two men leave the property. It’s an odd reaction to the news that his missing daughter may have been so near for so long. I understand the anger and the desire to want to do something, but there is no advantage to him being any closer to the woods than in his own house. Once something – if anything – is found, I’m sure the Curtis family will be the
first to hear about it.
Diane reaches out for Cheryl who takes her hand and joins her back on the sofa. With nothing else I can do, I return to the kitchen to make the drinks, quickly locating the pots of tea and coffee in one of the cupboards. The fridge is covered in postcards, each attached with magnets with locations written on them. Removing one, I skim read the back and see that it was sent to Diane by Owen while he was away working in Stuttgart. Checking another – this one from Washington DC – it appears there is a pattern to the cards. Each time he goes abroad he must send Diane a card of wherever he is. There’s one in particular that catches my eye but before I can look at it properly, I hear the front door opening again and this time Owen Curtis is joined by the familiar face of DI Rimmington.
She doesn’t acknowledge me, merely marches past the kitchen door and into the living room. Her next words send a shiver the length of my spine.
‘We will need to run checks to confirm, but we believe we have located the skeleton of a young woman.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Now
Bovington Garrison, Dorset
The last hour has simply flown by. After Rimmington’s announcement, the Curtis household has been overtaken by a variety of different men and women, to the point where names and purposes of visits have become a blur. It reminds me of the days that followed Anna’s disappearance all those years ago. I must have met dozens of people – interviewed by so many different faces – all wanting to know what I could recall about the exact moment Anna had left the garden. Could I remember if there were any unusual vehicles in the road, did Anna give any hint that she might not be going to our grandma’s house, had she sworn me to secrecy, was this just part of some idiotic children’s prank, did I see any figures following Anna? Question after question, asked a dozen different ways to try and make me trip over my own memory of what really happened.
I’m not blaming the police for these methods of interrogation. Ultimately, their goal is the same as the family’s, but it is an inordinate amount of pressure in what is already a tense situation. Technicians in protective overalls have been in to collect samples of Sally’s clothes in order to establish whether there is any link to the rags remaining with the decomposed cadaver. Other technicians have asked for photographs of Sally’s face so that bone structures can be compared. Someone else wanted a sample of DNA for comparison. Another wanted name and address details of Sally’s dentist. So many people all charged with following up on a different angle and all making their own demands.
I feel like a spare part, hunkering down and allowing all this interference to go on around me. I wanted to leave them to it – the last thing they need is extra people in the way – but when I offered to leave the house, Rimmington told me she wanted to speak to me about Natalie before I left. So, here I am, sitting next to Cheryl, forcing down more tea and desperately hoping I can use the facilities at some point soon.
Cheryl has never looked so relaxed. It’s as if she’s drawing some kind of entertainment from all this hoo-ha, as if she’s picturing the unfolding scene like a live-action version of one of the crime dramas she loves watching so much on television. I’m certain she’d accept if someone came round offering popcorn.
‘Miss Hunter, could we have that word now?’ Rimmington asks, coming into the room and targeting me directly.
I glance at Diane who is lost in a trance as her husband Owen answers questions beside her; I can only imagine the types of questions going through her own mind.
Following Rimmington upstairs, we pass a cloaked technician who confirms they’ve finished with Sally’s room and that the photographs will be available to view within the hour.
‘Please take a seat,’ Rimmington directs, as we head into what must be a guest room, on account of the limited furniture and mementoes on display.
Rimmington is much more formidable than I think I gave her credit for. The way Cheryl and Diane had described her to me is not what I’m now facing. This isn’t some timid DC being undermined by the head of base security and forced to backtrack on her investigation. This is a woman who has learned from her mistakes and experiences and is all the stronger for it.
‘I didn’t realise who you were when we met yesterday,’ she says, offering me a stick of gum which I decline. ‘When I got back to the station, I was telling one of my team about Jane Constantine’s statement and about you and your friend being there, and he thought it was hilarious that I hadn’t realised who I was speaking to. I apologise for my ignorance.’
I wave away the apology. ‘There’s really no need. I’m nobody in the grand scheme of things.’
‘Not from what I’ve subsequently been told. I don’t get much time to read these days – demands of the job, you know.’
I nod, though I can only imagine just how much of a strain the role puts on her ability to unwind. I’ve met plenty of detectives in my time, yet never once one who manages to maintain any kind of work-life balance. It certainly isn’t a role for everyone.
‘And from what I now hear, you were also the last person to see Natalie Sullivan alive, meaning that you are now my focus for the next twenty minutes at least.’
I think back to the moment Maddie and I stepped out onto that rooftop, how the cold wind clawed at my face, feeling as though it could suck us up into its grasp at any moment.
‘It was Natalie’s final words to me that seemed to start all of this off,’ I admit, ‘though I think Natalie had more of a hand in me becoming involved than I’d initially believed. It feels like she chose me to go down this route and I’m just following the trail of breadcrumbs she left.’
‘Why do you think she chose you?’
It’s a good question and one I’m not sure I’ll ever get to the bottom of. ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘My name’s been in the news a lot this past year so maybe she just figured I might sniff out a story and run with it.’
‘I don’t think it’s that,’ she says, popping the gum into her mouth and disposing of the foil wrapper in a pocket of her suit jacket. ‘Yes, you’re somewhat famous now, and maybe that’s how she first came across your name, but I think if Natalie were looking for some kind of fame through you, she wouldn’t have jumped. I think, in her hour of need, she needed someone relentless, someone who wouldn’t stop until they’d found out the truth.’
I can’t tell if she’s just trying to butter me up, or if there is some other ulterior motive to the ego massage.
I smile in acknowledgement. ‘Her final words to me were to find Sally and apologise to her. At the time I didn’t know who Sally Curtis was, nor what Natalie might want to apologise for. I think now… she was a muddled young lady. She set me off on some trail of modern witches and I think she did genuinely believe that she and her friends were in fact responsible for what happened, when they probably did little more than freak themselves out.’
‘I agree. As soon as I heard Jane Constantine’s version of what really happened in those woods, it only confirmed what I’ve thought for so many years.’ She joins me on the bed. ‘I never bought into the idea that she had run away from the base – there were too many people who would have seen her making her escape – and so something else must have happened. I was petitioning my own DI at the time to let me bring in every one of the soldiers on the base and systematically interview each. In fairness, had we known about Sally’s pregnancy fifteen years ago, I probably would have had the backing of my DI. Instead, he bowed to the pressure coming from the military and allowed them to assume unofficial control of the investigation. I don’t blame him as we were under such work pressures that any help would have been gratefully accepted.’
I’m surprised she’s being so open with me but I can’t help feeling there’s some other reason she’s being so candid.
‘You’re confident you’ve finally found Sally then?’
She offers a non-committal shrug. ‘Time will tell, but I’ve no reason to be doubtful at this stage. Our teams will work through the night
to carefully extract the bones and begin their verification checks. My chief superintendent has given a hundred per cent support for the next forty-eight hours and that means it’s all hands to the pump until the clock stops. That still won’t necessarily turn up what really happened to Sally, nor who robbed her of her young life, but my initial priority is to bring Owen and Diane some closure after failing fifteen years ago.’
I wish someone could do the same for me and Mum.
‘I presume you made a statement to my colleagues in the Met after Natalie jumped?’
‘Yes, it was a PS Daggard I spoke to.’
‘Great, well, I’ll ask if they can send a copy down for our files here. Tell me one thing before I go and speak to Owen and Diane again. Why did you tell Jane to phone me yesterday? I would have thought, given your chosen profession and contractual obligations, that you would have taken more of the credit.’
‘I never got into writing for the credit,’ I say sombrely. ‘There must be a million damaged lives out there with nobody looking to help set the course straight. For me, it’s about doing what little I can to help those who need it. I’m a firm believer in karma and it’s my hope that one day someone might return the favour. Until then, as you said, it’s about reuniting a missing girl with her grieving parents.’
She laughs at the response. ‘You ought to go into politics with that level of diplomacy! One last question: assuming it is Sally we’ve found, who do you think killed her?’
‘I wouldn’t like to guess.’
She laughs again. ‘That’s the right answer.’
I follow Rimmington down the stairs but there is a commotion in the living room that has erupted in our absence. Opening the door, Rimmington steps in, demanding to know what’s going on. And as my eyes meet those of Louise Renner, I think I already know the answer.
