by Sibel Hodge
‘Hi.’ He frowned in surprise. ‘It’s Olivia, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled. ‘Olivia Tate.’
He smiled back in recognition. ‘Yes. You’re a nurse at the doctor’s surgery.’
‘That’s right. Um . . . I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Something?’ He tilted his head in a question.
‘Something about a runaway you dealt with a long time ago.’
‘You mean Katie Quinn? I remember talking to you at the time.’
‘Do you?’ A spark of hope ignited. ‘Do you remember the goodbye letter she wrote, by any chance?’
His gaze drifted into the distance somewhere above my head, thinking. He was silent for a while before finally saying, ‘Why don’t you come in?’
His house was small and neat and tidy. Definitely male-oriented, with dark grey and brown and navy accent colours.
I perched on the edge of the grey velour sofa as he sank into an armchair opposite that had a nice view of a back garden equally as beautiful as the front.
Tom would love it.
But Tom was the reason I was there.
‘So, you want to know about the letter Katie left?’
I nodded.
‘Do you know how many people run away each year?’
‘No.’ I played it vague, not wanting to give away that I’d been Googling like mad.
‘Hundreds of thousands. People go missing all the time. Especially youngsters.’
‘Right. But you saw the letter, didn’t you? And you were satisfied that Katie had written it and it wasn’t a fake.’
‘A fake?’ He eyed me calmly.
‘Yes. I mean, did you compare the handwriting with something else of hers?’
‘Yes, I did. I even took it to our handwriting analysis officer, who told me it was a match.’
‘Oh. Did you ever manage to find out where she’d gone when she left?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching mine with something that looked like expectation. ‘I remember you kept asking me at the time if I’d heard anything − every few months or so for a long time.
I was suddenly an eighteen-year-old again, sitting in this very room, which was then his police office, asking if he’d had any updates about Katie’s whereabouts. I’d been hoping one day to get a letter from her, telling me all about her new life, but it never came. One half of me had felt like I should try to find her, although I didn’t have a clue how to go about it. If PC Cook couldn’t find her, then how could I? As the time wore on, I felt angry and hurt that she’d just upped and left without even a goodbye. We had been close. Like sisters for a long time. But not as close as I’d thought. I’d felt betrayed in the end, and so I’d stopped asking him. Stopped thinking about her.
‘Why are you asking now, after all this time?’ His voice jerked me back to the present.
I couldn’t explain the real reason – that my father-in-law had admitted to killing and burying her somewhere. Not yet. Not until I was certain she was really missing. So far it could all be some great big coincidence that I couldn’t find any trace of her.
He cocked his head slightly, waiting for me to say something.
‘Well, I’ve just been thinking about her a lot lately. Wondering why she didn’t get in touch when she was settled wherever she went.’ It wasn’t strictly a lie. I had wondered a lot, especially in the beginning. ‘At first I thought she’d come back. That she’d just had a row with her parents or was trying to run away from a broken heart.’
‘Yes, I remember you saying that at the time.’ He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
‘But don’t you think it’s weird she never got in touch with anyone in all this time?’
‘Are you suggesting something happened to her?’ He stared at me intently.
My cheeks flushed with warmth. Could he tell I was hiding something? Surely, as a policeman he was used to spotting lies. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, you don’t just disappear without a reason, do you? And from what I found out at the time, Katie didn’t get along with her parents, and she was running away from a troubled home life and a recent traumatic break-up with your brother-in-law, so it may not be that strange that she didn’t get in touch with anyone again. Although plenty of runaways do turn up later, some just don’t want to be found. Katie was an adult when she left. It was her choice to leave home, and I’m certain she left of her own volition. I made enquiries with the local hospitals, just in case she’d been in an accident. I searched the house and didn’t find anything that made me suspicious. I questioned Jack and Rose, and you and other people who knew her, and was satisfied there was no foul play. But I was pulled off the inquiry as soon as I established that, and there was nothing more I could do at the time.’
‘Did you keep a copy of the letter she left?’
His eyebrows pinched in an intrigued frown for a moment before he stood up. ‘Wait here.’ He disappeared out of the room.
I glanced around while I waited. There were several trophies for lawn bowling on top of the grey slate mantelpiece, along with a photo of him in his police uniform at an award ceremony, looking much younger. On the desk in the corner of the room was a laptop with a stack of hand-written notes at the side.
When he came back he handed me a clear plastic folder with a few sheets of paper inside.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s the notes I wrote up when Katie went missing. And a copy of her letter.’ He tilted his head towards his laptop. ‘I always intended to write a book when I left the force. I’ve got a big interest in the history of the village, and I thought it might make good reading, all the things that happened here. So I always kept personal notes on everything.’
Tears pricked at my eyes as the possibilities of what might have happened to her bombarded my thoughts. I gripped the letter and started reading.
I’m leaving this place and you can’t stop me. You know what you both did. I hope you rot in hell!
Good riddance!
That was it. No To Mum and Dad. No from Katie. It was definitely her writing, though.
I paused to gather my thoughts. Her medical notes flashed into my head. ‘What do you think she meant by “what you both did”?’
‘I asked Rose and Jack that at the time but they said it was just referring to a row they’d had the night before she left and Katie was just being melodramatic. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for them to argue, as I remember. Rose told me the argument started because they wanted Katie out of the house now that she had a full-time job. Jack said she was lazy and they’d had enough of her attitude and it was time for her to get her own place and fend for herself.’
‘They were throwing her out?’ I asked. Why had I not heard that at the time? I put the letter on the arm of the sofa.
‘Yes.’
‘So you don’t think she was referring to . . .’ I trailed off, unable to ask if he thought Jack had been abusing her. Maybe because I didn’t want to say it out loud. Saying the words made the possibility stronger, and if it was true, the thought of what Katie could’ve endured over the years went way beyond neglect.
He picked up the letter and read it again. ‘Referring to what?’
‘Um . . .’
‘I think I know what you’re asking, but I never found any signs of abuse going on − just neglect. I suspected Rose and Jack liked a drink, I suppose, but they hid it well behind closed doors. After Katie left, they didn’t really bother to hide it any longer. God knows how long they’d been alcoholics. So, you see, that’s what I think Katie meant in her letter. Her parents had neglected her. She didn’t get on with them and they were threatening to throw her out anyway, so she left. Her running away wasn’t unusual under the circumstances.’
I looked down at the carpet, feeling the weight of gui
lt crushing down on my shoulders again. I should’ve done more. Done something. I’d called myself her best friend, but I was the worst friend in the world. I’d let her down.
But you were only young, too. You can’t know everything when you’re that age, even if you think you do.
I shook off the inner turmoil and tuned back in to what Mr Cook was saying.
‘I found myself being glad that she’d run away in the end. I’m sure she would’ve had a better life on her own, without her parents.’
‘I hope so,’ I said. Maybe Katie really had run away. Maybe she’d just disappeared like the thousands of people who are never heard from again. But an uneasy thought hovered in my head and refused to go away. Something bad had happened to my friend: I was sure of it. ‘It’s . . .’ The room swam before my eyes and I suddenly felt stiflingly hot. I needed air. ‘I have to go.’ I shot up and made my way to the front door.
‘If you ever find out anything . . . if you ever hear from her, will you let me know?’ he asked as I turned the handle.
But I had a horrible feeling no one would ever hear from her again.
Chapter Thirteen
I had a hard time keeping everything straight in my head as I drove to Mountain View Nursing Home, hands gripping the steering wheel. I got blasted with a horn from the driver behind when I failed to notice some traffic lights had changed from red to green. Then I had to swerve to avoid a mum with a pushchair at the zebra crossing that I swear I didn’t see in the middle of the road until the very last minute. What the hell was I doing? I was a liability.
I sat in the car park in my Mini, staring at Tom’s window on the ground floor, chewing on my thumbnail. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be reassuring a patient, or walking Poppy. Mucking around with Anna, having sex with my husband, or at home making dinner. OK, not making dinner, but I wanted to be doing something normal. Something a world away from asking my father-in-law exactly where he’d buried my best friend’s body.
It was mad. Crazy. Insane. It couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real.
And yet it was.
Kelly made conversation about something as I signed the visitors’ book, but I couldn’t tell you what she said. I just smiled and nodded automatically and headed down the corridor in a daze, fighting to keep the anxiety and dread inside.
I waved a hello to Mary, who was thankfully on the phone and couldn’t engage me in any conversation, and I stood in Tom’s doorway, staring at the sleeping, shrivelled form of a man who was possibly a murderer. A man I’d known for over twenty-five years. A man I’d looked up to and loved deeply. The father of my husband. The doting grandfather of my beautiful child. Whenever Charlotte or Anna were ill when they were little, he’d be the first one round, reading stories to them, making up all these funny accents for characters in the books. He spent hours with them, trying to keep them entertained so it took their mind off how they were feeling. When Anna had chickenpox one year, he read her stories by Roald Dahl all night, doing all these amazing voices and making her laugh. Ethan and Nadia and Chris said he’d always done the same thing for them when they were growing up. Even though he was rushed off his feet, he still always had an infinite amount of time for everyone else.
If it was true, the world as I knew it was about to slip from underneath my feet and send me crashing to the ground. And what about Ethan and Nadia and Chris? How would they feel? Charlotte and Anna and Lucas? This wasn’t just about Tom; it would involve the whole family. We lived in a small village. People would gossip and stare and point fingers. How could we face Rose if we knew Tom had killed her daughter? How could we face anyone? We’d have to move. That was all there was to it. Leave the village and move to a town miles away where no one knew us. But what about Charlotte’s A-levels and Anna’s school? Anna loved it here. She loved her teachers and was doing really well.
I rubbed at the throbbing ache behind my temples and sat down in a chair next to his bed, suddenly feeling light-headed. I gripped the armrests, staring out of the window as the severity of the situation increased in magnitude. I worried about what would happen, desperately hoping there was still room for error and Tom was just confused about Katie.
I don’t know how much time passed as the afternoon drifted by and my stomach churned. I wanted to wake him and get it over with but I was afraid to, as well. Eventually, Tom’s voice made me look over sharply at him as he woke.
‘Who are you?’ He blinked sleepily at me.
‘Olivia,’ I said with none of the gentleness I usually reserved for my visits. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Are you a nurse?’
‘Yes, but I’m not your nurse. I’m your daughter-in-law.’
He looked sceptical. ‘No, you’re not. She’s blonde. Who are you?’
‘That’s Nadia who’s blonde. She’s your daughter.’
‘I don’t have a daughter.’ He sat up in bed and began fiddling with the blue waffled blanket.
‘I need to ask you something, Tom.’
‘I don’t need to go to the toilet.’
‘That’s good, but I need to ask you something else.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. It was an accident.’
I gripped the arm of the plastic chair harder, steadying myself for what he would say. ‘I’m sure it was, but I need to know exactly what happened.’
He shook his head, tears springing into his eyes. ‘It wasn’t my mess. I didn’t do it on the floor. Someone else . . . someone came in and did it when I was asleep.’
‘What?’
He pointed slowly to the bathroom with a shaky hand. ‘Accident. I forgot.’
‘You’re talking about having a bathroom accident? You didn’t get to the toilet in time, is that it?’ I tried to keep my voice calm while my heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
He was getting agitated, flapping his hands in the air, his breathing coming fast, so I grabbed his hands and placed them in mine, even though I didn’t want to touch him.
‘It’s OK, don’t worry. The nurses see it happen all the time. Just breathe slowly.’
Tears dribbled down his cheeks. ‘It’s not me.’
‘Everything’s all right. No need to get upset, OK?’ I grabbed a wad of tissues from a box on top of his bedside cabinet and wiped his eyes.
He stared at the blanket and wouldn’t look at me. ‘You’re not like her, are you?’
‘Who?’
‘Eve. She doesn’t come anymore.’
I decided against telling him again Eve was dead. I didn’t think he could handle a fresh tide of grief in his fragile state. ‘She’s a bit busy today, but she’ll come soon.’ I patted his hand. ‘I’m Olivia. Do you remember me?’
He looked at me then, his eyes watchful, flitting back and forth in their sockets. ‘You made me a chocolate cake.’
I was hit with a memory of his seventy-first birthday, just after we’d bought Tate Barn and moved in with him. Nostalgia rose up inside. I’d wanted his first birthday with all of us living in the house to be a special occasion for him, not knowing how much time we’d have left before the Alzheimer’s took its toll. I bought him one of those old newspapers you get online, dated the year he was born, which he loved. Anna made him an impression of her hands encased in pottery at school and painted it red. I don’t know what happened to that. Ethan bought him some fifty-year-old single malt whisky that he shared with the guys. I can’t remember what the rest of the family bought. It was a great day, though, and Tom was on top form. He had a blast. Didn’t even get confused once.
My eyes stung behind my eyelids, but I blinked back the tears threatening to flood out. ‘Yes, I made you a chocolate cake.’ It was awful. It tasted rubbish but Tom had pretended it was the best thing he’d ever eaten, and I’d loved him for it.
His face softened, the lines smoothing out as he smiled, his eyes lighting up in recog
nition. ‘You like pink nail varnish.’
‘No, that’s Nadia.’
‘No, you had it on your toes when you got married. You looked beautiful. I was so proud when I gave you away.’
It was definitely Nadia but I wasn’t going to argue.
‘Tom, do you remember what you told me the other day about Katie? About how you buried her?’ I said gently, trying to ignore the cramping in my stomach.
He stared blankly at me.
‘Katie? Katie Quinn? Do you remember her? She was my friend. She left the village when she was eighteen.’ At least I very much hoped she had.
‘Katie,’ he whispered and fiddled with the edges of the blanket again, twisting it one way and then the other.
‘Yes, she was going out with Chris. She was at your house a lot that summer. Do you remember her, Tom?’
He nodded and screwed up the edge of the blanket in his fist.
‘What happened to her? Did you do something to her? If you did, it’s all right.’ Even though it wasn’t all right at all. What was I talking about? ‘If you did something, we can sort it out. I just need to know what happened.’
He took a shallow breath. The tears fell down his cheeks, splashing onto the blanket, which he gripped tightly. ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’
‘Yes, you said it was an accident, wasn’t it? Just a bad accident?’
He closed his eyes for a long time and I thought he may have fallen asleep. Eventually his eyelids flew open and he said, ‘I got rid of her. It’s OK; no one will find her body.’
My stomach lurched. Acidic bile rose up my oesophagus into the back of my throat. ‘Where, Tom? Where did you get rid of her? Where did you bury her?’
He wiped his wet cheeks with the back of his hands and looked at me, shaking his head. ‘You won’t tell them, will you? I was just protecting my family. I was just doing what a parent should.’
