by M. A. Hunter
‘They’re herby, which I’m not a fan of, but passable with the gravy on. The mash isn’t as lumpy as I’d like. Your grandma used to make the best mashed potato. She wouldn’t overmash it, and then she’d put it in the oven with lashings of butter and cheese until it formed a hardened crust. I don’t think she’d have cared much for this, but beggars can’t be choosers and I shouldn’t turn my nose up at food cooked for me.’
A knock at the door means the tea has arrived. I collect the tray from the nurse at the door and set it down in the narrow gap on the table before pouring us both a cup from the pot. Mum finishes her meal and we stack the plate on the tray and just sit there while I tell her more about my adventures in publishing. She listens to what I have to say and asks interested questions from time to time. Before I know it, an hour has passed, her plate is collected, and two bowls of rice pudding are brought through.
‘Pam said you might be hungry,’ the young nurse explains as she hands them over, and I don’t hesitate to tuck into it.
‘There was a little girl went missing locally, wasn’t there?’ Mum says when she’s finished her pudding. ‘I read about it in the newspaper. Did they call you in to help with that?’
‘Do you mean Jo-Jo Neville?’ I ask with a hint of trepidation, worrying that her good day is deteriorating and she’s now talking about Anna.
‘That’s right. They said her mother hid her away or something. Did you hear about it?’
I nod. ‘I had nothing to do with her being found though. Poor girl. I don’t know how her mum could have concocted such a sinister plan for media exposure.’
‘The story reminded me of… Anna. I’m certain she would have been found quickly if she’d disappeared today.’
I don’t have the heart to tell her that just as many children disappear without trace in current times despite the onslaught of camera surveillance and social media. Although I didn’t want to mention Anna specifically, now that she has raised it there’s no hiding.
‘I’m still searching for her, Mum. It’s become something of an obsession for me. I won’t stop looking until I do find out what happened, and where she ended up.’
‘You need to move on with your life, Emma. How old are you now?’
‘Twenty-eight, Mum.’
‘Well, there you go. I was married and your father and I were trying to get pregnant by the time I was your age. It took longer than either of us imagined, mind you, and if you take after me, you really should start trying soon. Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’
I know she means well, and I don’t want to allow her outdated viewpoint to spoil what has been my best visit to see her. ‘I’ve got plenty of time to start a family if I decide that’s what I want. I’m not sure what I want yet.’
‘Well, I think you’d make a fantastic mum, my darling. Don’t wait too long and regret not taking action. There, that’s all I’m going to say on the matter. You’re a grown woman, and you don’t need to pay attention to a silly old fusspot like me.’
‘Thank you, Mum.’
‘You certainly couldn’t do any worse than that woman who hid her child and claimed foul play. What did you say her name was again?’
‘Who? Tina?
‘No, the daughter.
‘Oh, Jo-Jo – well, short for Joanna.’
Her eyes glaze over and she looks out of her window into the darkness. ‘It’s funny, your sister never used to like that name either.’
I frown. ‘What name, Mum?’
‘Joanna. That’s what we christened her with, but she hated it, which is why we always referred to her as Anna instead. Do you remember? You couldn’t say Joanna when you first started to talk, because the J-sound was too difficult, so you always used to call her Anna. It just kind of stuck from there.’
She had always been Anna as far as I was concerned, and I wonder what else Mum has hidden away in those memory banks. Alas, she is yawning and time is drawing on. I don’t want to force her to relive that horrific day again, not now. Hopefully we’ll be blessed with at least one more day like this, but for now I just hold her close, and cherish my mum.
Chapter Forty-Three
Then
Dover, Kent
With a deep breath, the young woman hoisted herself onto the brown wheelie bin, uncertain it would support her weight and size, and was relieved when it didn’t topple over. She’d waited across the street until she saw him leave, but had waited an extra ten minutes in case he returned unexpectedly, but now that the coast was clear she was free to make her move.
The air was damp from the earlier downpour, but there was a crispness to the wind, suggesting that the bad weather would pass. The gap between the bin and the flagpole protruding from the wall looked far greater now than when she’d planned how she would enter the property from the safety of her car.
Her next move was simple: vault from the bin to the flagpole, using her momentum to swing her legs up until they reached the veranda above the bay window, and then she would scramble up to the balcony and be at the window he’d left open despite the uncertain weather. Well, the theory was simple. What it didn’t allow for was the prospect that the flagpole wouldn’t support her weight, that the pole itself would be slippery from the rain, and that the veranda was only made of thin slate tiles.
She didn’t have time to debate the move any longer. Get in and out was what she’d promised herself when she’d finally found his home. Almost twenty years since he’d sold her overseas and left her alone to face hell on earth. It wasn’t about revenge, rather… redemption. She would tear down their organisation brick by brick if necessary, and that meant starting at the top.
She slowly shuffled her feet to the edge of the bin. From here she could almost reach out and touch the flagpole, but it would take a leap of faith to make it. If she failed and missed, she would have to delay for another day, but she didn’t want to run the risk that he would disappear again. She’d been so close to catching up with him in Girona, only for him to slip through her fingers. She couldn’t afford such a slip-up again. Back then she’d phoned the local federales to hit the commune, but he must have been tipped off. That was why she hadn’t dialled 999 this time. She wouldn’t repeat her mistake; she would go it alone.
With a deep breath, she threw herself forwards, arms flailing in the air as her hands wrestled for the white pole. But she needn’t have worried, as she felt the cool, wet metal beneath her palms, and swiftly coiled her fingers into a grip while her legs flew beneath her and cracked tiles as her soles dug into the uncertain surface. Tentatively poised between pole and veranda, she took a second breath, pushing against the pole and into a standing position, able to grip the metal frame of the balcony for support. A second tile cracked beneath her feet and it was all the motivation she needed to pull herself up the metal frame and over the top, crashing to the wooden floor with a thump and a huge sigh of relief. She remained still for a couple of seconds, composing herself, before looking back over the balcony, searching for curtain-twitchers. She was relieved when nobody in the private cul-de-sac appeared to have noticed her vault. Fate, it would seem, was on her side.
Pressing herself against the rain-covered window frame, she reached her arm through the small window, crooking her elbow and twisting until her fingers made contact with the tiny key in the handle of the main pane. Twisting, she gently eased the handle up, and prised the window open. There was no sound of movement inside, nor any alarm ringing either; it almost felt too easy, but she was in no position to question it.
Poking a foot through the window, she hopped over the frame and crouched down in the large office. A wide oak desk to the right of the window held a monitor, desktop computer, keyboard, mouse, and printer. Beside the desk stood three tall grey metal filing cabinets, and beside them a bookcase containing a variety of literary fiction, autobiographies of sportsmen, and an alphabetised encyclopaedia collection. Across the room there were framed pictures of him and presumably his wife – memories from holi
days abroad and pictures of him hobnobbing with a cast of once-famous celebrities. To an untrained eye, Mr Brown’s office was the picture of respectability. Of course, look a little closer at some of those framed pictures and it was easy to identify several Operation Yewtree suspects.
Bypassing the computer, she pulled on the handle of the first filing cabinet, unsurprised to find it locked. Same result with the remaining drawers on the other two cabinets. This might have fazed her once upon a time, but the internet truly was a wonderful thing. Reaching into the pocket of her jet-black jeans, she withdrew the small nail clipper, and pulled out the metal emery board. Pushing this into the lock of the first cabinet, she gently wiggled it as she’d seen in the online video, before turning and springing the lock.
Pocketing the device, she pulled open the top drawer and scanned through the dividers, reading name after name. Reaching the end of the dividers, she closed the drawer, and moved on to the next one, paying closer attention to C, until she found what she was looking for. Extracting the divider, she moved onto the next drawer, until again she found what she was looking for. Tucking the dividers under her arm, she studied the remaining drawers, uncertain what she would find, until she reached the final drawer of the third cabinet. This one was different to the rest, but it soon became clear as she withdrew a divider with a name she didn’t recognise.
‘Don’t move,’ a gravelly voice sounded over her shoulder.
She froze, sliding the third folder under her arm with the others.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing in my house,’ the voice spoke again, ‘but you’ve made a huge mistake in coming here. On your feet now.’
She pushed the drawer closed and stood, keeping her back to him and the hood of her jacket pulled over her head. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to phone the police, she was pretty sure, but that didn’t mean he would just let her go. She’d anticipated this possibility, reached into the pocket of her jacket, and gripped the handle of the small blade.
‘Who the hell are you anyway?’ he said.
She counted to five, slowly spinning on her heel and withdrawing the knife in one motion.
He was older than she remembered. Still portly, his hair was much thinner and whiter.
‘First rule of combat is never bring a knife to a gunfight,’ he sneered, cocking the pistol and gesturing for her to discard the knife.
She remained resolute in her stance; she’d come too far to give in so easily.
‘Come on, we both know I could shoot before you get anywhere near me with that thing. Pull down that hood. Let me get a look at you.’
She didn’t move until he retrained his weapon. She doubted he’d have the courage to shoot her here in his office, not with his wife due back from her trip to the hair salon, and the mess it would entail. More likely he’d make her go outside first, though she doubted he’d have it in him to pull the trigger himself.
Slowly raising her free hand, she pulled the hood from her pixie-cut brown locks. A slight hint of recognition took over his face, as if her features were familiar but he couldn’t place why or where he’d seen them before.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ he asked, still staring into her eyes.
She didn’t answer, trying to calculate if she could throw the knife before he cracked off a shot. Anything could happen, but she wasn’t trained in the art of knife throwing, and she could just as easily strike the wall as the soft tissue of his neck.
‘You might as well throw that thing away,’ he sneered again. ‘We both know you don’t have the balls to actually use it. No pun intended.’ He chuckled at his own lame joke.
She considered her surroundings. He was blocking the doorway, which meant she wouldn’t be able to get past him and downstairs to the front door. She’d left the window open, but he was bound to fire before she’d got within spitting distance of it. Even if she ran zigzags and threw herself through the open frame, the balcony was quite narrow, and she’d just as likely miss it and hurtle head-first down to the ground below.
She brought her gaze back to him and tightened her grip on the blade. ‘I’ve killed with a knife before and I’m not scared to do it again.’
His expression changed as the pieces slotted into place behind his eyes. ‘Kylie,’ he snorted. ‘I always wondered whether our paths would cross again. My, my, you’ve grown a lot since I last saw you. How long’s it been?’
‘Not long enough,’ she scowled.
‘And what’s all this? You thought you’d kill me in revenge for what happened to you?’
‘Cut off the snake’s head and it can no longer cause harm.’
‘Oh, and you think I’m the top of the chain? More fool you. I was merely a pawn in a much larger game.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Am I? Kill me then, and watch someone else take my place.’
She couldn’t tell if he was bluffing, but as she thought back to that night at the party, when all those other children appeared from nowhere, was it possible she’d given him far more credit than he deserved?
‘I have to admit it has crossed my mind to wonder whatever became of you. I assumed you’d have been disposed of when you’d stopped serving your purpose, but then those that choose to join the cause earn themselves a reprieve.’
She closed her eyes as the memory of those she’d helped coerce flooded her mind. So many faces, too many names to recall, and yet she could remember every single one, and she would do what she could to seek their absolution.
‘Grey was another who found a way to outlast his youthful appeal. And if you think that your ending his life puts me on any kind of edge, forget about it. We both know you didn’t mean to kill him. And unless I’m very much mistaken, his dying breaths probably still haunt your dreams. I can practically read it in your face. You’re not going to stab me, so stop wasting time.’
She allowed the knife to drop from her fingers. What other choice did she have?
‘Good girl. I’m pleased to see you’ve finally learned compliance.’ He moved forwards, swallowing the distance between them and snatched the folders from beneath her arm. ‘What exactly were you looking to achieve by taking these? Nobody cares about missing children. They’re yesterday’s news stories. There’s far too much going on in the world. I bet you can’t even remember your own family, and I doubt they remember you.’
He’d lowered his guard coming so close and she quickly thrust her hands towards the weapon, hoping to take him by surprise, but he pulled his arm away before she had a chance and used his shoulder to spin her into the desk and onto her knees. She was about to try again but he quickly retrained his sights on her temple, and the fight left her.
‘Pitiful child. I never did understand why Grey became so obsessed with you. Maybe you reminded him of his own daughter. I can only assume that’s why he spent so much time ogling those photographs. I warned him not to mix business with pleasure, but he couldn’t see the dangers.’
He dropped the folders on the desk near her face and a small gust of air fluffed her fringe.
She looked back at him, suddenly doubting her own belief that he wouldn’t kill her here. But something else had now contorted his features.
‘I suppose there’s only one way for me to find out what the appeal was.’ He kept the gun pointed at her, and used his other hand to work his belt free, before unfastening his trousers. ‘You want to live, you know what to do.’
She could see the colourful pattern of his boxer shorts poking through the zip of the trousers and her stomach turned.
‘Do it, or I kill you now,’ he threatened, pressing the cold barrel under her chin and pointing her face up towards him. ‘It isn’t like you haven’t done it a hundred times before. Probably more.’
She swallowed hard and slowly moved her hands upwards, willing herself to put her fingers anywhere near his crotch.
‘That’s it,’ he scoffed. ‘Old habits die hard.’
She threw her head backwards, cracking the base of her sku
ll on the edge of the desk but ignoring the searing pain and at the same time she grabbed the barrel of the gun and pushed it towards his body, just as his finger tensed. The explosion was deafening, so close to her right ear, and she wanted to retch as the warm liquid splashed against her cheeks and closed eyelids, but it was over in a second.
He fell backwards, writhing in pain, the gun abandoned, clutching his groin as though he might be able to keep everything attached by sheer will.
‘You bitch! You fucking bitch!’ he was screaming, but the cries were muffled.
Pushing herself away from him and the desk, she picked up the three folders, and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes on Mr Brown to ensure he didn’t reach for the gun again, but there was no danger of that. Scooping up the blade from the carpet’s edge, she zipped it back into her coat, and continued backwards out of the room and down the stairs, wiping the blood from her face with the sleeve of her jacket. Her eyes didn’t leave the upstairs until she felt the handle of the front door protruding into her lower back, and only then did she turn and pull open the door.
Her exit from the property was less careful than her arrival. Tearing down the paved driveway, she darted through the gates, across the street, and into her waiting car. Dropping the folders onto the passenger seat, she started the engine and hauled out of there.
She finally stopped when she was a good five miles away, and it was while in the car park of Dover train station that her breathing finally returned to a more regular rhythm.
She could have remained at the house and waited for the police to arrive so that she could explain exactly who Mr Brown was and why she’d broken into his home, but she wasn’t ready to go on the record about her own misdemeanours yet. She also could have picked up the gun and finished him off, but she liked the idea that his wife would return home and find him bleeding, and leave him to explain why.
