Discarded

by M. A. Hunter

But the roundabout came and went, and still there was no return to her road. Her pulse quickened. Tears began to pool in her eyes, and she could feel his eyes watching her. ‘Please, I just want to go home,’ she whimpered, fear clawing at her throat.

  ‘We’ll be there soon,’ his voice soothed, even though she didn’t believe a word of it.

  In a final act of desperation, she subtly moved her hand to the door handle, all the time checking that he was no longer watching her in the mirror. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal, coiling around the handle, but as she tugged on it, it didn’t budge.

  She was trapped.

  Chapter Two

  Now

  Winchester, Hampshire

  I can’t explain the nerves I’m feeling as I wait on the kerbside. There is a small wall adjacent to my knees, and I’m tempted to perch on it to rest my legs, but it is suffering the effects of erosion, and I’m not sure it would adequately support my weight. The ball of tension in the pit of my stomach is large enough without the added embarrassment of recreating Humpty Dumpty’s most memorable moment.

  The high wall surrounding HMP Winchester is casting a huge shadow over the area I’m waiting in, and I’m glad I opted to wear a sweater and a thick coat today, even though the weatherman had said it would be unusually mild for February. It’s been close to eight months since I last saw Freddie Mitchell, as he was led away from the dock at Reading Crown Court, sentenced to ten months at her Majesty’s pleasure for deliberately causing arson and criminal damage to the former Pendark Film Studios.

  I’d wept for my friend as I watched from the public gallery, but he stood resolute, showing no remorse for destroying the site of so much abuse and evil. I don’t agree with the action he took, but I understand why he did it; having had his abuse claims overlooked and ignored, the arson was his way of making it impossible for him to be ignored anymore, even if it had cost him his freedom.

  I’ve begged Freddie to let me come and visit him, but he has refused visitations from anyone on the outside. He’s phoned to let me know everything is okay and that he meets with the prison chaplain on a weekly basis, but I can hear the pain in his voice when he talks to me. Given the extent of the damage caused to the site, Freddie was lucky not to receive a longer sentence, and it is a reflection of his good behaviour that he is being released ahead of schedule. Ultimately, the studios had been long abandoned, and having searched the place prior to starting the blaze, he knew there was no immediate danger to life, and the judge had taken this into account. I just hope these last eight months haven’t taken anything more from my friend; he was broken when I met him, and nobody deserves a happy ending as much as him.

  I can see movement at the security barrier and a moment later, Freddie appears, dressed in the denim jeans and sleeveless jacket that have become his trademark. The thick beard is certainly a new addition, as is the presence of hair on his head. It reminds me of my first encounter with Freddie when he was sleeping rough on the streets of Weymouth, and I was serving food at the shelter. I hope his time inside hasn’t changed him in other ways too.

  Freddie doesn’t notice me at first as he steps into the cool late-morning air, and inhales a deep breath of freedom. I remain where I am, giving him the space to embrace his newfound independence. Eventually, he looks up, and double-takes when he spots me.

  ‘Emma, what are you doing here?’ he asks, quickly swallowing the distance between us.

  I throw my arms open and around his shoulders when he nears, and squeeze him tight. ‘I know you didn’t want a big fanfare, but I didn’t want you to have to make the journey back to Weymouth alone.’

  His head nestles in the crook of my neck and for a moment I’m certain he’s weeping, but it ends as soon as it starts and he looks away as we separate. ‘How are you keeping?’ he asks, unobtrusively wiping his face with his arm.

  I don’t want to overwhelm him by telling him how much I’ve missed our chats, and how life just hasn’t tasted as sweet without him around. I’ve spent more and more time at the shelter, helping out in his absence, but it hasn’t made the loneliness more bearable. That’s not Freddie’s fault and I’m as much to blame for my isolation as anyone else. Rachel has phoned when she can, but I don’t like to intrude while her romance with Daniella blossoms.

  I settle for, ‘I’m well, thank you. And you? How does it feel to be out in the open again, after so long?’

  His head snaps round and fixes me with a hard stare. ‘Please don’t do that. As far as I’m concerned, these last eight months never happened. I never want to think nor speak of them again.’ His shoulders soften. ‘Is that okay? It was what it was, and that’s where I want it left. Can we just pretend like we’ve both been asleep since the summer, and now that we’ve woken with renewed purpose we can move on with our lives?’

  I’ve never seen Freddie beset with such shame – even when he finally opened up to me about the abuse he’d suffered at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. My friend is usually so bouncy and full of verve but today he is flat; I just hope he can rediscover some of his old self once we’re back home in Weymouth.

  ‘I’m happy to pretend,’ I acknowledge, smiling warmly. ‘It’s what I do for a living, after all.’

  He loops his arm through mine and we move away from the prison, in the direction of Winchester town centre. ‘How is the writing going? You were writing about that French girl the last time we spoke. Is that what you’re still working on?’

  It was my investigation into the sudden return of Aurélie Lebrun that inadvertently triggered Freddie’s meltdown at the film studios. She was another one with a complicated past that needed unpicking. Having escaped prosecution by the British authorities, she returned to France, and the two of us have been meeting via video call to iron out the finer details of her story. It will probably be at least another four to six months until it hits the shelves, but at least that leaves plenty of time to sharpen the prose and syntax.

  ‘I submitted the first draft of the manuscript to my agent Maddie last Friday. You remember Maddie, don’t you?’

  He nods. ‘She handled the contract for the TV series adaptation of your first book. It’s thanks to her that I had to submit my first ever tax return last year.’

  ‘That’s her. Well, she has the manuscript now, and will be running her digital red pen over it to bring it up to her very high standards before sending it on to my publisher, which means I am now at something of a loose end. So, like it or not, Freddie Mitchell, you’re stuck with me for the rest of the day. And as you weren’t around to help celebrate my birthday in August, the least you can do is come out to lunch with me now.’

  He slows to a stop, taking my hand in his. ‘I’d rather just get home and have a shower and a shave.’

  Freddie has battled with narcotics and alcohol for most of his life and as far as I’m aware he’s remained clean throughout his incarceration, but my gut is telling me not to leave him alone right now.

  ‘I insist you come to the restaurant with me, even if you just drink tap water,’ I say lightheartedly. ‘There’s nothing as unbecoming as a writer eating alone in a restaurant on her birthday.’

  ‘It isn’t your birthday though.’

  ‘It is my pretend birthday, Freddie. If the Queen can have two, so can I!’ I pull him closer to me. ‘On a serious note, I’m famished and if I don’t eat a proper meal, I’ll end up scoffing my weight in crisps and chocolate on the train back to Weymouth and we both know I can’t afford to turn into any more of a heifer.’

  He laughs for the first time and I finally see a glimpse of the old Freddie returning.

  ‘That’s true, I suppose,’ he teases, and I playfully slap his arm. ‘Come on then, let’s get something to eat. And put the world to rights.’

  A steak dinner for Freddie and a garlic chicken risotto for me later, and the conversation remains as stilted as it was outside the prison; maybe I’m not as good at pretending as I thought. It’s proving problematic trying to keep
the conversation light and engaging whilst avoiding any mention of what happened last year.

  ‘Have you finally made a move on that detective boyfriend of yours?’ Freddie asks now, as the waiter collects our plates.

  Freddie knows that mention of my feelings for DS Jack Serrovitz will be enough to get a rise out of me, but I’m not going to take the bait.

  ‘Actually, I haven’t spoken to Jack in a few weeks.’

  Freddie frowns, all humour dissipating from his face instantly. ‘But what about the files and paperwork I dragged out of that hell’s kitchen?’

  Right before Freddie set the Pendark Film Studios ablaze, he extracted half a dozen filing cabinets filled with receipts and invoices tying hundreds of individuals to the place; and whilst some of those filmmakers weren’t producing filth, it was Freddie’s contention that some of them would have been.

  ‘Jack is still investigating, as far as I’m aware.’

  In truth, I have no idea what Jack is currently up to. Shortly after Freddie’s arrest, he was seconded to join a specialist team in the National Crime Agency with the specific purpose of uncovering a network of paedophiles and traffickers operating along the south coast of the UK. The filing cabinets and their contents went with him and although he promised to keep me updated, I guess he hasn’t been allowed to do so.

  ‘But I got those files out for you, Emma. You were supposed to use them to track down what happened to Anna.’

  Another reason I’m disappointed that Jack hasn’t been in touch recently. My sister Anna has now been missing for twenty-one years, and the only evidence that she wasn’t killed the day she was abducted is her face on a pornographic video when she must have been about thirteen years old. What happened to her after that is anyone’s guess, and the bane of my existence. Deep down, I want to believe that she is still alive and kicking out there somewhere, but as the days wear on, that reality grows dimmer.

  I recall a conversation I had with Elizabeth Hilliard when her daughter Cassie was missing. Elizabeth was adamant that she could feel deep down that Cassie was still alive, and she was proved right, but I don’t have any similar sense with Anna. Not anymore. I’ve tried – God knows I’ve fought against the cynicism – but how can she have been alive all this time and not made contact?

  ‘Jack knows that, Freddie, and I’m sure the only reason he hasn’t called is he’s been snowed under with work.’

  Not even I’m convinced by the line.

  Freddie looks forlorn and I don’t need to ask what’s going through his mind right now: that the last eight months of his life have been wasted.

  I settle the bill, and then the two of us slowly make our way towards Winchester station, ready to board the next train back to Weymouth, but a dark cloud hovers above our heads. Maybe we’re both just bad at pretending everything is normal.

  My mood lightens briefly when I see that Jack is calling my phone, and I turn the screen to show Freddie; it feels as though our prayers have been answered, but then I hear Jack’s morose tone and it puts me on the back foot.

  ‘I’m at Pendark Film Studios, Emma. I need you to come over here straightaway. We’ve found something buried beneath the ashes.’

  Chapter Three

  Then

  Newbury, Berkshire

  Catching the reflection of myself biting my nails tells me everything I need to know about the anxiety throbbing through me. Jack’s tone wasn’t warm and welcoming, but cold and pragmatic; he refused to elaborate on the phone what had been found beneath the ashes of what remained of the site, but it clearly isn’t good. My mind has been racing with possibilities and the only conclusion I can draw is that they’ve discovered a body, and that Freddie is now likely to be facing further criminal charges.

  I could barely look at him as we parted at Winchester station, certain he’d see the alarm in my eyes. He looked relieved to be travelling back to Weymouth alone, and I just hope he stays true to his sobriety without me watching over him.

  There can’t have been any remains in the rubble though, as a thorough search was performed of the grounds following the fire in order to rule out the prospect that the arson had taken a life. Freddie was adamant he’d checked the site before striking the match, and given the studios hadn’t been in operation for several years, there is no reason to doubt his word. Yet still, what else could have put Jack so on edge?

  Newbury station is a short train ride from Winchester, and as the taxi nears the entrance towards the studios, I’m reminded of the last time I was here, after Freddie had called to tell me what he’d done. He hadn’t sounded ashamed at the time; if anything, he was victorious in finding the studios where he’d been so badly mistreated for so many years, and for bringing an end to its torturous past. I can’t bear to think about how many other children suffered in the same way as Freddie.

  Since Freddie’s sentencing, I’ve tried to do some of my own research into the studios in an effort to shed any light on how it became such a portent of horror. Formerly a fallow piece of farmland, the site was bought by the newly formed Pendark Corporation in 1958 and developed into what became three large sound stages in 1961, set to rival the likes of Ealing Film Studios in West London, as well as Pinewood in Iver, Buckinghamshire. With the backdrop of the high turrets of Highclere Castle, the studio had some early success with a couple of well-known medieval-set pictures. However, whilst British cinema grew in the 60s and 70s, Pendark’s isolated location in Berkshire proved less appealing than London, and the Pendark Corporation flirted with administration for several years until it was bought by a Dutch entrepreneur called Arend Visser. From that point the studios’ output was limited to a few B-movie horror pictures which failed to set the world alight. From the fact that the Pendark Studios didn’t officially close until 2017, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that the business was being funded by some other means.

  Arend Visser passed away in 2010, but despite owning the Corporation, he remained resident in his native Eindhoven until his death. Whether he was aware of the atrocities being carried out on his property is unclear. I did email all this information to Jack, in case it would prove beneficial to the NCA’s investigation, but he emailed back thanking me and reminding me that I am no longer part of the investigation.

  What was the studios is now surrounded by high wooden boarding, branded with the name of a property developer. According to the large graphical display at the entrance, the plan is to turn the site into a luxury hotel, cinema, and casino leisure park, presumably to attract those visiting nearby Newbury racecourse. Just what the world needs: another place to go and waste precious resources. Why somewhere with so much blood spilled can’t be turned into something that can bring benefit is beyond me: a new hospital; a school; affordable housing.

  The taxi pulls to a halt at the wire fence, and I pay the driver, before stepping out into drizzle. Pulling the hood up over my head, I move to the gate and peer through, catching Jack’s attention a few metres away. He’s wearing navy jeans, brown hiking boots, and a cagoule to shelter him from the rain. He never was one for high fashion, but I must admit it’s odd seeing him in anything but his usual black and white uniform.

  He approaches the gate and I now see there is an officer in a high-visibility vest just inside the gate. Jack speaks to him, identifying me, and the officer then proceeds to unlock the gate and beckon me in. There is no sign of any blue and white police tape as far as I can see, and the fact that they’re not following standard crime scene procedures gives me a modicum of relief. Maybe I was allowing my imagination to get the better of me, and my appearance here has nothing to do with Freddie.

  Time will tell.

  Jack appears at my side, shielding his eyes from the dripping of his hood as the rainfall worsens. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, nodding for me to follow him. ‘We’ve got a hut we can wait in until the rain eases.’

  I’m tempted to hug him, but as I move towards him, he turns and strides back through the mud. I hurry after h
im, trying to avoid the puddles strewn left and right. It’s difficult to picture what the studios looked like before. Little of them now remains. The stanchions that had survived the blaze are black with soot, with great steel struts bent and twisted from severe heat exposure. It resembles a giant gothic sculpture and there is little left of the corrugated plastic roofs that would once have helped produce magnificent scores. Even now – some eight months since the last of the fire was extinguished – the pungent smoke and ash still cling to the air, reminding anyone who passes of what occurred here.

  One of the sound stages looks to be in the middle of demolition. Large yellow diggers wait idly to be put to work again. A tall orange crane has been erected in the middle of the site too, but glancing up I can see that the cockpit is empty. Work here has been indefinitely stopped and that doesn’t bode well for the development, nor for me, as we arrive at the small wooden hut which is akin to the sort of portable bathrooms quickly erected at music festivals.

  Jack stamps his feet on the mat as he takes the large step up in a single bound. I follow suit, though it is clear from the muddy footprints already scattered across the floor that the doormat is having little effect in these conditions. There is a large table in the middle of the cabin upon which lies a paper map of what is presumably the architect’s site plan. Two men in yellow hard hats are studying and occasionally pointing at the map as they continue their hushed conversation.

  One of them finally looks up as he catches Jack in his periphery.

  ‘Sir, may I introduce Emma Hunter, the writer I was telling you about?’ Jack says, addressing him. ‘Emma, this is Detective Chief Inspector Harry Dainton.’

  The man is at least six inches taller than Jack, the skin beneath his eyes aged but taut. He extends a large hand and shakes mine firmly. ‘Great to meet you, Emma; my wife’s a big fan of your books. She keeps on at me that I should read them, but I just never have the time. Thanks for coming down here today.’