Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “This is all your fault. She’s targeting us because of you.”

  Seb, who has his phone out and is dialling the police, gives her a warning look. But he doesn’t say anything because he knows she’s right. I let go of his arm.

  “I’ll go and call DCI Murphy,” I say, slipping away into another part of the house. Anywhere that gets me away from that pointed finger.

  ***

  Two hours later, Donna and I are sitting in the farmhouse kitchen waiting for Josh to either come home or call. Seb is at the police station, filing a missing person’s report, and meeting with DCI Murphy to talk about Isabel. There was yet more bad news when I called Murphy to ask about the timeline. He believes Isabel has been in the country for at least three days. What’s more, her mother was found dead yesterday morning.

  I remember the time I met Anna Fielding; how obvious it was that she was on drugs. I remember coming away worried for her. And since then I’ve always thought of her as a victim, even when I saw that she’d contacted Tom on Facebook. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be murdered by your own family.

  The kitchen is silent. We’re sitting around the old, pine table with two untouched mugs of tea in front of us. I can hear myself breathing, hear the whistle in my nose. Every now and then she sniffles. When she speaks, I jump out of my skin.

  “We need to get water to the trough in the paddock,” she says.

  “I can do that for you if you like.”

  “You’re not strong enough to lift the tubs,” she replies. I can’t decide if it’s stating a fact, or if it’s an insult.

  “No, I probably shouldn’t lift anything that heavy right now anyway,” I say, and then my stomach flips over. I close my eyes.

  The long silence makes it clear that she noticed my phrasing. She’s guessed why I can’t lift anything heavy. I long for a hole in the floor to swallow me up.

  “You’re pregnant.” She says it as though she’s stating a fact, without any emotion. But I don’t blame her, no doubt her head is filled with nothing but the disappearance of her youngest son.

  “It’s early days, but yes. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you like this. Seb and I were going to announce it once we passed the three-month mark.”

  She nods once. “He’s always wanted children, my Seb.”

  “He talked about having a family?” I ask.

  “Not really,” she says. “But he doesn’t have to. He was the one who took Josh under his wing, not the two oldest. He was the best big brother any boy could have.” She begins to choke out her sobs and I move closer to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders. No matter what may have been said between us, I hate seeing her like this. I can hardly stand it.

  Once she’s finished, she pulls away from me and blows her nose on a tissue. “I remember the night you came flying down the moors, the blood all over you. Wild eyes, like those of a blast survivor. Seb saw it all and there was nothing more he wanted to do than take care of you the way he did Josh.”

  “I know. But I want to look after him, too.”

  “You should have killed her when you had the chance,” she says, with a voice filled with hatred.

  “I tried. I failed twice now, but I wouldn’t fail a third time.”

  Her head bobs up and down in agreement, but her eyes are distant, focussed on the world outside. “If Isabel has killed my son, I will find it very hard to forgive you, even if you do give me a grandchild.”

  “I know,” I say softly. “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Seb

  In a drab, grey room on a drab, grey day, DCI Murphy blinks at me once. “And you believe all of this?” I haven’t had as much to do with the detective as Leah, but it’s clear he thinks I’m mad.

  “I do,” I say. “I think Tom is a murderer.”

  “Talk me through it again,” he says. He picks up a pen and makes a note. I have a different opinion of Murphy than Leah. Because he’s shown her support over the years, she thinks he works in her interests. I don’t think that’s true. I think any man leading a nationwide investigation and has failed this many times must be an incompetent moron. But he happens to be the best we’ve got.

  “I know I don’t have evidence, but I trust Leah. What she told me implicates Tom, even though she doesn’t realise it,” I tell him. Murphy writes down another note. “Did you know that she sleepwalks?”

  “I think she mentioned it in one of her statements, yes. She suffers with some psychological problems, too, doesn’t she?”

  “That’s true. But when she’s taking her medication, she’s absolutely fine.”

  “Was she taking her medication at this point?”

  I pause. There’s no way of knowing if Leah was taking her pills because I wasn’t there. But I know the woman I love. The woman I love has expressed no other desire than to be better. “Yes, I believe so. But I wasn’t living with them. It was when they were in witness protection. She remembers washing blood from her hands. She’s spent the last two years believing she murdered Alison Findlay.”

  “What?” he says.

  I nod. “It’s not true though. It was Tom.”

  “Isabel confessed to the murder of Alison Findlay. Why would she lie?” He taps the end of his pen against the notepad.

  “I don’t know much about psychology,” I admit. “But don’t people like her want attention?”

  “Some do,” he says. “Anyway, go on.”

  “I think Tom made Leah believe she killed that woman. I think he is the one who killed Alison Findlay, and then smeared the blood from his own hands on Leah. Maybe he whispered it to her when she was asleep, I don’t know. But the thing is, the day,” I prod the desk and it rattles, “the very same day that he arrives at our cottage, Jess Hopkins dies in the same way.”

  “It was the same day Isabel escaped prison as well.”

  “Yes, but she got out of the country so fast it seems unlikely she came to the farm and randomly killed someone like that. After all that obsession with Leah, why would she kill Jess rather than break into the cottage and murder Leah?”

  “I have thought about that,” Murphy admits. “The two women shared a lot of physical characteristics.”

  “There’s no way that Isabel would mistake Jess for Leah. It wouldn’t happen.”

  “She’d been in prison for two years,” Murphy replies. “That’s a long time not to see someone’s face.”

  “Is it? Would you forget your wife’s face after two years?”

  “That’s different,” he says with a laugh.

  I don’t find it funny. I have to sit on my hands to stop myself jabbing a finger at him. “That murdering cow doesn’t do anything but think about Leah. She plots and she schemes all because she wants my girlfriend dead. So why wouldn’t she take the chance if she had it?”

  Murphy makes another note. I want to believe I’m winning him over, but his features remain impassive.

  “Leah even saw Tom standing over Jess,” I add.

  “But he wasn’t bloody. We checked him.”

  “Coming back to the scene of the crime? Maybe he wanted to look at what he did the day before. Look, hear me out. This is important because my brother is missing and Leah is pregnant, and I need to protect them both. I never thought Tom was a bad kid, but killing David Fielding changed him. He became aggressive, especially towards Leah. She told me all about it. He was violent to her when they were in the witness protection programme. He even moved out and left her in that house alone. He left her alone when Isabel Fielding was chasing them. I’ve lived with him for two months and I’ve seen that dead, empty look in his eyes. I know he’s not right in the head. My brother is a big guy, he couldn’t be hurt by a ten stone girl like Isabel. Whereas Tom is tall, and he works out. He could do it.”

  “Thank you for telling me this,” Murphy says. “I’m glad you did, it’s all information that I needed to know, and believe me, I will follow up on it.”

  Hands back on the tabl
e, I watch as he gazes above my head. “And you’re going to look for my brother? He doesn’t disappear like this, not without calling or texting us. This is all wrong.” I remember another part of the tale I’d been piecing together. “Can you find out if Tom and Isabel were in contact while she was locked up? It all feels connected. She escapes, a woman dies, and Tom finds the body. She comes back to the country and my brother goes missing.”

  “As far as I know, Isabel didn’t have many visitors or correspondence while she was in prison. Only her brother sent her letters, and I believe the actress playing her in the movie visited a few times. Nothing from Tom, I’m afraid.”

  “Still,” my earlier conviction begins to ebb away, “he’s suspicious. You have to check him out.” When Murphy stands, I do the same. My insides feel twisted up and not right. I’m rambling more than I’d like, heart pounding, everything on edge. This is not who I am. This isn’t how it was supposed to go, I’d felt so confident striding in here with all my information to tell.

  “Certainly,” he says. “I’ve got your number. In fact, I’ve got everyone’s number, Leah’s, yours and Mrs Braithwaite’s too. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have a development.” The man smiles thinly. The kind of empty, exhausted gesture that asks another human to let them be. Normally I’d be fine with that, but my brother is missing.

  However, there’s nothing more I can do here. Staying to argue some more won’t bring my brother home. No, there’s somewhere else I need to go.

  ***

  This damn village. As soon as I walk out of the police station, I see Tom on his mobile phone, standing outside the supermarket across the street. He nods to me and I decide I can’t do anything but wait as he crosses the road to speak to me. The boy has grown over the last three or four years, shoulders twice the width, arms twice the size.

  “Did Leah tell you about Isabel?” he asks.

  I nod. “Did Leah tell you about my brother?”

  His brow bunches and his mouth turns down. “What about him?”

  “He’s missing.” I watch carefully to see how he reacts. Can I gauge his feelings? Can I spot a lie?

  “Fuck. When did that happen?”

  “Last night.”

  He shakes his head. “Your brother goes missing and Isabel is back. Jesus. That can’t be a coincidence. Have you spoken to Murphy?”

  “Yes, just now. I told him everything.”

  Tom shuffles the toe of his trainer against the tarmac of the pavement. “Fuck. I hope you find him. Maybe he had a heavy one, eh?” The slight laugh is empty and feels inappropriate given the situation. It takes all of my willpower not to throw him against the nearest wall.

  “Did you know that Leah thinks she murdered Alison Findlay?”

  Tom’s shocked expression is exactly as someone would imagine. Jaw dropping open, the tiny shake of disbelief. “What?”

  “That’s what she told me. She remembers washing blood from her hands late at night. Didn’t you notice?”

  “No, I never knew.”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “No.” His voice is faintly quieter than before.

  “Well, that confirms it then,” I say.

  “What?”

  “It was a dream.”

  “Sure,” Tom says. “Yeah, must be. Leah wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. Unless it was to save someone’s life, like you did with David Fielding.”

  He doesn’t say anything, simply watches with an impassive expression. The confusion is gone.

  “That must have been tough to do,” I prompt, still watching him with interest.

  “You have no idea,” he replies.

  “I’ve never stabbed anyone in the back, no. I think I would if they hurt my family though.”

  Tom nods. “Anyone would. It’s a natural reaction. Anyway, I have to go. I have a session with a client. I hope the police find your brother.”

  Rather than head straight home, I get in my truck and sit for a moment. A heavy lump sits in the pit of my stomach, and everything else feels twisted up, my heart blocked. Frustration builds and builds. What can I do about this? Is my brother already dead? I beat the steering wheel with my fists, trying to stop my mind from wandering back to the day Mum and Dad brought him home from the hospital. I was four years old. They showed me how to hold him, starting with a cushion on my knees, until I was stronger and could hold him in my arms. At night, Mum would take me to his crib so that I could softly say goodnight.

  The rivalry had come later. We always had to have identical toys, but as the oldest I thought I should have better ones. As adults, Dad showed us all how to be farmers, but he did it in a hierarchical order, starting with the oldest. Josh was jealous I learned more before him. That Dad was able to teach me more before he died. We’d have blazing rows at times, but the next day I’d help him fix the tractor or he’d hold a cow while I tagged it. We were a team. A bloody dysfunctional one, but still a team. And now he’s gone.

  I sniff away unshed tears, put the truck in gear and reverse out of the space. Everything I said to Murphy was true, but it’s obvious the man didn’t want to hear it. While I’ve always appreciated the way he’s protected Leah since Isabel’s escape from Crowmont, I suspect the man is short-sighted. To him, Isabel is the one he’s looking for. She’s the killer. But in my mind, it’s clear. Tom is fucked up. And now I need to prove it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Leah

  When Seb walks in, the stress is evident on his face, skin an ashen shade of white. The exhaustion tugs at him, pulling at eyebags, darkening of the contours on his face. How can a man age in the space of half a day?

  “How did it go?” I ask.

  “I met Murphy at the village station.” He sighs. “He listened to me, took details. He says they’re going to look for him.”

  “Okay, well, that sounds promising. He’s a good police officer and he knows Isabel. At least we have allies.” I’m still sitting next to his mother with my arm around her shoulder, but I get up to hug Seb before going to fill the kettle.

  “I went for a drive around after,” he says. “Thought I might see him somewhere. Stupid idea.”

  “No, that was smart,” I say. “We could have another search of the area later. I was thinking we could check out in the fields in case he fell somewhere and hurt himself.”

  Seb nods. “I’ll do that now.”

  “The water in the paddock,” Donna says, lifting her head for the first time.

  He starts walking to the door. “I’ll take it on my way.”

  “She told me.” Donna stares at the back of her son’s head, eyes barely focussed, rimmed red from her tears.

  I freeze, the kettle half full of water. “I told her about the baby,” I admit. “It slipped out. Sorry.”

  Seb slowly turns to face us, and I see all of his pain. This isn’t how he pictured this moment, and it isn’t what he deserves. I know deep down in my bones that what Donna said about Seb always wanting to be a dad is true, and I know that on some level he’s imagined this moment. The proud moment of informing his family that he’s about to become a father for the first time. But he’s been robbed of that joy by my loose tongue. How could he enjoy anything while Josh is missing?

  “Well, now you know,” he says simply.

  “Now I know.”

  “We can talk about the baby as much as we want in the future,” I say, trying to inject some happiness into my voice. “Right now, let’s focus on Josh and everything we need to do to find him. I’ll get on social media and set up a post. Maybe it’ll go viral and someone will have seen him. I need a recent photograph and I’ll be all set.”

  “You can get one from his Facebook page,” Seb says.

  “Right. That can be my job.”

  Seb says his goodbyes and leaves the kitchen.

  Forgetting the kettle, I go through into the house and dig out the Braithwaite’s laptop. I get on with my task, finding a clear picture of Josh
and creating the post. Then I contact his Facebook friends, hoping that they can shed some light on where he might be. Some reply straight away and express surprise. This isn’t like him at all, they say.

  After a while, I start to immerse myself in my task. There are plenty of social media sites to try and lots of people to contact. I even start to do some research on local businesses who might share the post with their followers. It’s over an hour later when Donna comes into the lounge and places a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of me. Her eyes are still wet, but she has more clarity about her than before.

  “I can’t work that thing.” She gestures to the laptop. “Useless. My own son is missing and there’s nothing I can do.”

  I feel for her because I’ve felt the same sinking feeling of uselessness in the past. “Did you and Seb try hospitals this morning?”

  “Seb called all the major ones first thing.”

  “You could try them again,” I suggest.

  “I don’t want to block the line,” she says. “In case he calls.”

  “You can use my phone if you like.” I hand it over to her and she sits down on the sofa with a copy of the yellow pages, licking her fingers to flip the thin paper.

  The rest of the day goes by in a blink. Seb comes and goes, checking in to see if we’ve discovered anything, then disappearing to finish farm tasks, rearrange appointments, and drive around in the truck. He takes Josh’s dog with him, hoping Patch will sniff out his owner. But when he calls in, we have nothing to tell him. We learn nothing. All I know is that I feel a sense of dread building up and I can’t shake it.

  When the sun goes down, tea isn’t strong enough anymore. Seb opens an old bottle of Bells and takes a swig. None of us can make conversation because we’re so raw inside. I think of Rose Cottage alone on the edge of the moors. Now in darkness.

  The landline rings and Seb’s mother snatches up the phone. “Hello.” The phone falls from her hand.

  We both lunge for her at the same time, but it’s Seb who catches her when she swoons.

  “They’ve found a body,” she says. “They’ve… They’ve found a…” The wail is so broken and hoarse that it will forever be in my nightmares.