by M. A. Hunter
I desperately want him to shout at me, and release the tension in the room; either that or to tell me we can get over this hurdle. But he simply shrugs and tells me he doesn’t know what his plans are for tomorrow yet, but he’ll call me.
I don’t push him any more but hug him again, with no response, and head out into the cool chill of the night. The sky is pitch black now, and the moon must be hidden by a cloud somewhere. The streetlights do little to brighten the slippery paving slabs, and so I eventually resort to pulling out my phone and using the torch to light my way. The shelter is only a ten-minute walk from my flat and I know the route like the back of my hand, but given everything running through my mind – Freddie, Jack, Anna – I don’t think I’ve ever felt so vulnerable. Every rustle of a discarded carrier bag, every cat scurrying for dinner, and every gust of wind has me looking over my shoulder for some evil spirit about to strike out at me. There’s nobody watching or following me, but my shoulders don’t relax until I see the lamppost outside my flat.
My relief is tempered with surprise as I spot the car parked beneath the light, and then see Jack emerge from the driver’s side as I near.
‘Before you say anything,’ he blurts out, stopping me in my tracks, ‘I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour back there. It was unprofessional and insensitive.’
I cross my arms. ‘It isn’t me you should be apologising to.’
Jack locks the car and comes over, wearing the face of a disciplined school child. ‘You’re right. I owe Freddie an apology too, but I’m still convinced he’s hiding something. Don’t ask me what, but my sixth sense – that tiny voice in my gut that hears what I can’t – is telling me that your friend is holding back. And I will find out what he’s hiding and why.’
This isn’t the first time Jack has met Freddie, but he hasn’t spent nearly as much time with him as I have, and I just don’t see this deception. It makes me wonder for how long Jack hasn’t trusted Freddie.
‘It’s freezing out here,’ Jack continues, glancing over to my front door. ‘Can we go inside, so I can apologise properly?’
It’s tempting to send him on his way after his performance at the shelter but I can read the sincerity in his eyes, and so I give him the benefit of the doubt. I nod for him to follow, and once we’re inside I fill the kettle with water and switch it on. It feels good to be back in the warmth with the smell of this morning’s burnt toast still hanging in the air.
‘What’s going on, Jack?’ I ask bluntly, no longer prepared to beat about the bush and wait for him to open up. ‘I know you said things have been stressful managing work with additional care for Mila, but Freddie isn’t the only one holding back, is he?’
It’s like the question has triggered a switch in Jack’s head as his eyes suddenly fill and he can’t bring himself to look at me. He shakes his head. I pass him a tissue and allow him space to compose himself as I make the tea. We move into the living room and sit on opposite ends of the sofa.
‘I bet the last thing you expected to find on your doorstep was a sobbing bobby, right?’ he says, eyes now drier, and with his gawky grin.
‘I’m worried about you, Jack. I haven’t heard from you in weeks, haven’t seen you in months, and then today you’re not the Jack I remember. Do you know what I mean? You’ve been a pent-up ball of tension all day, and then the way you went for Freddie – and in a place where he feels secure – was so unlike you. What’s going on? What’s really going on?’
Jack takes a sip of his tea before placing the mug on the carpet by his feet. ‘I thought I was keeping a lid on it all but the truth is I’ve been burying my head in the sand. Things with the investigation have all but stalled. When I started the secondment with the team at the National Crime Agency, they were all looking to me for background and context, and those first few days were spent with them interrogating me on every detail of what we – you and I – had managed to find out. I spoke to them about your history with Arthur Turgood and the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. One or two of them had read your book, Monsters Under the Bed, and knew the history. I spoke about the hard drive recovered from Turgood’s home, and the underage pornographic material discovered on it, and how that led us to finding Freddie’s footage, that of Jemima Hooper, and of course your sister, Anna. They listened and they questioned until they understood what was required: find the other children in the videos, and use the files recovered from the Pendark Film Studios to tie culprits to the footage. In the near eight months the investigation has been in full swing, do you know how many perpetrators we’ve brought to justice?’
I shake my head. I certainly haven’t read about any in the news.
‘Zero. And do you know how many new faces we’ve managed to identify from the video footage? One! A lad called Billy Watson who went missing on his way home from school in Edinburgh in 1997. He’s still listed as a missing person, and we’ve made no progress on finding out who took him, how he ended up on film, nor where he ended up. Given Jemima Hooper’s demise, I’m not holding out much hope of finding him. You and I achieved more in less time and there were only two of us. I am working as part of a team of twenty trained detectives and we’ve still made virtually no progress in uncovering the network of monsters responsible for all this abuse and tragedy. And it’s killing me knowing that we’re failing these kids. God knows how many more missing children are out there right now suffering at the hands of these evil bastards.’
I had no idea his mental health was suffering so much as a result of this race I feel responsible for starting. ‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ I offer sincerely, choosing my words carefully. ‘I’m sure you and your team have given everything you can, and I would imagine you’ve chased down a lot of false leads, right?’
‘Every avenue of investigation feels like it ends at a brick wall.’
‘But there’s a silver lining to that cloud: it means you’re getting closer to finding the right avenue that won’t lead to a dead end. Think about how people make it out of a maze. You have to pursue wrong routes to find the way to the treasure in the middle. What feels like little progress due to the lack of success is in fact taking you closer to the truth. You shouldn’t beat yourself up over that.’
His eyes are watering again but this time he keeps the tears at bay. ‘I feel like I’ve let you down most of all. I promised you I wouldn’t stop until I found out what happened to Anna, but we’re no closer to knowing who took her, nor how she ended up at Pendark. And if she is the one we found…’
I reach out and take his hand in mine. ‘If that is my sister, then you will have achieved something I never could in bringing her home to me. I’ve always accepted deep down the possibility that I would never learn the truth about what happened to her, so you shouldn’t feel like you’re failing anyone. She went missing twenty-one years ago, Jack; that’s a helluva lot of history to churn through.’
His face softens for the first time all day and I catch a glimpse of the old Jack again, fighting to break through.
‘I miss this, you know,’ he says. ‘I never appreciated just how good you are at seeing the edges of the jigsaw pieces, and how they fit together in a logical manner. I don’t doubt if we had you supporting the investigation we would have made more progress, and plotted a better course out of the maze.’
I squeeze his hand. ‘I’ve missed you too.’
Jack swivels around so he’s facing me better. ‘I’m glad to hear you say that. After we worked together on the Aurélie Lebrun case, it felt like… I don’t know… like something had changed between us. I know you said you weren’t interested in pursuing anything romantically with me with everything that was going on, but right before I joined the NCA, I got the impression you’d lost interest altogether.’
My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. When I' invited him in to apologise, I hadn’t anticipated having to discuss my personal feelings. I’m not ready; I need time to prepare and think about how I feel. That’s the beauty of writing: you get to sketch
an idea and then edit it until it’s just right. On the spot conversations are not my strong suit.
How I wish Rachel was here. My best friend would know what to say right now, but she’s off in Barcelona living her best life whilst her beautiful girlfriend Daniella is modelling. Not that I begrudge Rachel any happiness; God knows, she deserves a little positivity in her life, and I am so relieved she and Daniella worked things out.
‘You need to say something,’ Jack says, edging closer. ‘Was I imagining it?’
‘To be honest, I didn’t know where I stood after you slept with your former flame, DS Zoe Cavendish.’
I’ve never seen a frown form so quickly on anyone’s brow. ‘What? I never slept with Zoe!’
‘It’s okay, Jack, it’s not like we’re involved. You’re free to pursue whoever you wish.’
He’s shaking his head in disbelief. ‘No, but I didn’t. Zoe is an old acquaintance, rather than an old flame. There’s never been anything between us, at least nothing like that! What the hell made you think I’d slept with her?’
I can’t read him. In my head I know he slept with her, but he is putting up such a strong defence that my conviction is waning.
‘She told me you did – or at least she implied it. And you did crash at her place for a couple of nights. Given your history…’
‘She told you we slept together? Wait until I speak to her next… For the record, I have never slept with DS – sorry, she’s a DI now – Zoe Cavendish. When we first met at police training, I was already involved with Chrissie – Mila’s mum – and I’m not the sort to do the dirty on someone I’m seeing. I can’t believe you actually thought I would have slept with Zoe of all people. She’s hardly my type, is she?’
It’s my turn to shrug. ‘How would I know, Jack? I don’t know what “your type” is.’
He looks down at his hands, still shaking his head. ‘It’s you, Emma.’ He looks up and meets my stare. ‘You’re my type. Someone who is smart, and funny, and doesn’t realise how special and beautiful she is.’
My heart is racing so quickly it may very well fly out of my chest. God, why are my hands suddenly so clammy? I’ve been waiting to hear someone say those words to me, but now that they’re here, I feel nauseous. Is he about to try and kiss me again? I’ve had no time to ready myself for this! My lips are chapped by the cold weather and I’m dressed in a plaid skirt and turtleneck jumper.
He takes my hands in his. ‘I don’t want you to doubt how I feel about you, Emma, but…’ He pauses. ‘There is so much going on right now with work and Mila that I don’t think it would be fair on either of us to pursue this right now. I need to sort things out and get my head clear, but once I do, I hope we can explore this at some point.’
He releases my hands, and is quickly on his feet, looking at his watch. ‘I need to get back for Mila.’ He sighs. ‘Thank you for the tea, and for not laughing at me when the floodgates opened.’
He is moving towards the door, but I’m still frozen with fear on the sofa, my mind yet to catch up with the reality that he isn’t about to try and kiss me and worrying about how awkward it’s going to be.
‘I’ll show myself out. If you see Freddie before I do, can you pass on my apology? I’ll try and call him at some point.’
And suddenly I’m alone in my room and the front door is closing, and I didn’t get to tell Jack that I’m happy to wait for him for as long as it takes.
Chapter Nine
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
Dinner – if you can call it that – was a bowl of whole-wheat pasta with what remained of the open jar of pesto at the bottom of my fridge. Sometimes, there’s nothing wrong with waiving the need for fresh fruit and vegetables. Technically, the large glass of Chenin Blanc that accompanied the meal was made from grapes, and so in my book that’s one of my seven; I’ll just have to eat double tomorrow!
With the pan and my bowl soaking in a basin of hot water, I finally catch my breath after what has been a rollercoaster of a day. If I’d known everything that would happen today, I might very well have rolled back over in bed and remained there for the rest of the day. It’s not even ten o’clock, and already my warm duvet and soft pillows are calling for me. The wine probably wasn’t such a well-thought-out idea considering my mental state, but it’s too late to worry about that now; it’s not like I need to drive anywhere tonight.
Staring at the calendar in my kitchen I can see the bold letters of the leaflet hanging from the pin board beside it. You’d think after two years of publication parties, book launches, and signing events I’d be comfortable with what awaits in the morning, but the truth is today’s turmoil has served as a welcome distraction. The signing is at the Waterstones in the centre of town, and is being hosted in celebration of the paperback release of my last book, Isolated, which tells the story of Sally Curtis, the teenager who went missing from the nearby Bovington army barracks. Awkwardly, the book signing event my agent Maddie organised for last autumn’s hardback release was at the WH Smith’s a few doors away from tomorrow’s venue. It will likely generate some local interest, and as Maddie always tells me, ‘You can’t sign books once you’re dead!’
No, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me either, but that doesn’t stop her using it every time she’s trying to cajole me into attending one event or another.
‘It’s about giving back to your fans,’ she reminds me, and I owe my readers a lot so it’s only right I try and repay them in some way.
The signing doesn’t start until ten, and Maddie is planning to meet me at the venue half an hour before to ensure the table is set up and there are enough copies of my other books on hand should anyone be interested in purchasing them for signing too. I don’t know what I’d do without Maddie in my life. Her commercial eye means I can focus solely on creating the work, and she is worth every penny of the commission she collects from royalties earned. I’m planning to wake at eight, shower, and dress in an outfit Maddie has picked out for me, before taking a leisurely stroll into town, stopping for a cooked breakfast on the way to settle any last-minute nerves.
‘The day will pass without hitch or issue,’ I tell myself, breathing in deeply and exhaling as I repeat the mantra.
I’m about to switch off the kitchen light and head through to bed for a read when the phone erupts to life on the side and frightens me half to death. I shouldn’t be surprised to see Maddie’s name in the caller display; she’s probably just checking I’m not planning to back out of the signing at the last minute.
‘Hi, Maddie. You caught me on the way to bed; want to be fresh for the morning.’
‘Good girl. Glad to hear it. I was just checking that you know to be there for half nine, and to bring a couple of pens in case one runs out.’
I quickly grab two pens from the mug by my writing desk and place them on the unit beside my door, silently reprimanding myself for not remembering I’d need something to sign with.
‘Already sorted,’ I lie confidently.
‘I figured it would be, but no harm in a gentle reminder. Are you all set? No last-minute nerves?’
‘No,’ I lie again, though less convincingly. ‘It’s a couple of hours of sitting behind a table, thanking people for their interest in my work. How hard can it be, right?’
‘That’s the spirit! Actually, there was another reason for my call; we received an envelope for you at the office yesterday. Addressed to you, but care of the office. I was just going to bring it down tomorrow, but then I suddenly thought it might be urgent. Probably just fan mail, but I can open it if you want?’
Right after Monsters became the overnight success it did, I found I started receiving all sorts of letters from readers to my home address. Some were sweet messages of support, but not all, and in the end we had to hire a company to remove all traces of my home address from the web for protection. It still terrifies me that some crazed fan could find out where I live and come to my door. I still get to read any messages that are se
nt via Maddie, and most remain heart-warming and inspirational letters that touch my heart. There was one gentleman, who shall remain nameless, who sent me a box of his old pornographic magazines, advising that he had turned over a new leaf and put that seediness behind him because he’d seen the error of his ways having read Monsters. We passed the box and note onto the police, but I don’t know if anything ever came of it. Maddie now acts as my filter and doesn’t show me anything that might put my nerves on edge and stop me agreeing to events like tomorrow’s signing.
‘Yeah, go ahead,’ I say, stifling a yawn, the wine slowly pickling my brain.
‘Okay, one second,’ she says, and I hear her lowering the phone.
I yawn again while waiting for her to come back on the line.
‘Mmm,’ she mumbles, ‘it’s a black and white photograph. No letter, just an image of a girl. There’s no return address or contact details on the envelope.’
I’ve received crude messages on social media from men telling me how they could blow my world, or how I should agree to meet them because they feel we’d have such a great time together. And yes, there has been the occasional dick-pic as well, and it’s the reason I was so keen to avoid social media in the first place. If it weren’t for Maddie’s insistence that authors need to have a social platform, I wouldn’t be on it today. I’ve never received an image through the post though, let alone one of a girl.
‘How old is this girl?’ I ask.
‘Hard to say. Adolescent, I guess. Oh, wait, there’s a name scrawled on the back. Faye McKenna.’
The name doesn’t ring any bells in my tired mind. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Nope, just the name. It’s been written in some kind of thick permanent marker, I’d hazard.’
I know I’m tired, and the only semi-logical explanation my mind can conjure is that it’s a picture of a missing girl sent in by a fearful parent, or one of her family. Given the work Rachel and I are undertaking with the charitable Anna Hunter Foundation, offering emotional and financial support to the families of missing children, I suppose it’s possible an applicant has sent the image to try and attract my attention.
