***
We walk into the hospital together as the first snow of the season begins to fall. Seb and his mother cling to each other. He carries her weight, shouldering the emotional labour. I try to stay close to his free side, so that I can place a hand on his arm or back whenever he might need it, but I am not their blood, and I am not truly part of this, I can only watch on the outskirts.
We all know that this body is going to be Josh.
Bright lights wash over us, all the people milling around the foyer appear to be in hyper colour, and all I can think about is how there is no way this body is anyone but Josh. People don’t go missing in Hutton village. The police don’t find bodies unless that person has been murdered by Isabel Fielding.
I’m shivering all over despite my thick winter coat. We negotiate the corridors beneath the blinding lights until we find the morgue. Even the signs hit me hard.
A short man with a neat beard talks us through the process and then leaves us to decide who will identify the body. Donna lets out a small whimper, and even I find myself crying already. Seb’s face is a mask of pain. He keeps glancing down at his shoes and clearing his throat.
“I need to see him,” Donna says. “I need to know that it’s him.”
“Then I’m going in there with you.” Seb nods firmly.
“I’ll come with you,” I offer.
“No. Family only,” Donna says.
The barb cuts deep, but it’s her decision and I respect that. This is her son we are talking about, and this is the worst day of her life. I take a step away; then all I can do is watch as they walk together into the viewing room.
The man with the beard shows me where I can sit and wait, which I do, with my hands clutching my knees. I’ve done this once before after Mum died. I saw her laid out on the gurney. The paleness of her skin. How bloodless she was. I think of Jess’s blue breasts, the bruises on her body.
I need to see Tom after this. I need to know he’s safe.
Seb and Donna are in the room barely two minutes. He walks over to me much more quickly than I’d imagined, no longer holding his mother. I stand, knowing immediately that something is wrong.
“It isn’t Josh,” Seb says.
“What?”
“It’s Dominic.”
The world tilts. I push Seb away in my hurry to enter the viewing room. I have to know. I have to be sure. And there he is. Those handsome young features frozen in death. Eyes closed, mouth still. He seems even younger now, without his clothes and mannerisms and slightly sad smile. I begin to cry for him, and place one hand on his cheek, feeling the ice-cold surface. It isn’t fair that this happened. Dominic was a decent person with a warm heart, someone I already miss. Now I’ll never chat with him over shortbread ever again, and someone will have to call his parents to tell them he’s never coming home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Isabel
It’s an old saying, Leah – one I’ve never bought into – that the definition of insanity is performing the same task over and over again expecting a different result. If that’s insanity, then a movie set is completely crazy. Through the dirty glass window of Owen’s latest stolen vehicle, I watch them do the same thing over and over again. The girl playing me, Cassie, gets into a car and drives it down the street. Then they spend an hour resetting lights and cameras and they do it again. Each time Cassie comes out of the car, the director hugs her, pulling her into his arms. Then he wags his finger at her and she stands there staring at her feet, taking whatever criticism he has. I’m not convinced I would take it.
They’re filming outside a hospital near York, nowhere near the real Crowmont. It doesn’t look anything like it either. They’ve printed a fake sign and stuck it on the driveway to trick people into thinking this is where it all happened. I’ve never been a fan of trickery, unless I’m the one doing it. But even I have to admit that there are times when I see a glimpse of Cassie in that car and it reminds me of me, with hair I dyed a shade darker to look like yours. Along with the weight I shed to resemble you at a glance. She looks like both of us. We could be sisters, and maybe that other one, too. Jess.
Can you imagine what our childhood would have been like if we’d been sisters? Would we have had my parents, or yours, do you think, Leah? I think yours. I would’ve killed your father before he had the opportunity to abuse you, and that means Tom wouldn’t have been born so I could have my sister all to myself. It would have saved your mother, too. Well, our mother in this reality. And she would have looked after us in that tiny house in Hackney. The three of us together. Ah, yes, I’ve already forgotten about the other two.
I think it would’ve been blissful. I think we would’ve loved each other. Or perhaps not. From what I’ve learned about people like me, we can’t love anyway. But you would’ve been all mine and that’s enough for me.
The movie set begins to pack away and I can see Cassie following the director around like a lost puppy. He has his hand on her arm, very firmly. I don’t like the look of this man, Leah. I don’t like him much at all. You might be surprised to know this, but I can recognise one of my own quite easily. This man has that hard glint in his eye. Tom does too, sometimes, but I don’t know whether he’s exactly the same as me. Owen, obviously. My father. My uncle. My mother when she’s intoxicated enough, but it’s not natural for her. She wasn’t born a psychopath.
But not you. Never you. No matter what happens to you, your heart remains open and raw. I could burn your life to the ground – and believe me, I’m trying to do just that – and you’d get up and keep going. You’d blame yourself first, then you’d find someone else to nurse and life would go on.
I have to go now, Leah. The police are tracking us using Mum’s money, which means we can’t linger in one place. I’d imagine that scabby detective has told you about her death by now. I ought to kill Owen for what he did, but perhaps even I have a limit. Or perhaps I know that I need him in order to survive. We will adapt, anyhow. I must go and find him now.
I wish you were actually here to talk to. My imagination only stretches so far. But there is a present waiting for you. I hope you like it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Leah
I stagger away from the body. Seb pulls me into him and my back rests against his chest. I can’t stop staring at Dominic laying on the gurney, his eyes closed, his face slackened by death. Seb’s arms take hold of my shoulders and he gently turns me around.
He brushes away a tear on my cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
“I thought he’d gone home to his parents. I should’ve checked. I didn’t even ask Tom, I just assumed.” I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Seb passes me a tissue. “He didn’t reply to my messages and I should’ve checked he was okay.” I don’t say it, but I think it… It’s the same situation as with Jess. I should’ve checked on Jess when she stopped replying. I didn’t push anything. I didn’t spend much time finding out where they were and why they weren’t replying. Why didn’t I call Dominic’s parents to check he’d gone home? Why didn’t I make sure Tom did?
Seb leads me out of the room and he tells the coroner that the body is not that of his brother, that he believes it’s Dominic Molina instead. The coroner merely nods and tells us he’s sorry for our loss.
“We should go and get some coffee,” Seb says. “Or something stronger.”
Back in the waiting room, Donna pulls me into a quick hug. Unexpected, but welcome.
She wipes away a few tears. “I feel awful,” she says. “I liked the lad, but I’m glad it’s him. I’m glad it’s not my boy.”
I can’t hate her for it, in fact there’s a part of me that thinks the same. I lived with Dominic for two months. I loved his company, and I thought of him as a kind and thoughtful friend, someone whose company I cherished. But Josh was practically my brother in law and I would’ve hurt for Seb and myself if we’d walked into that room and found Josh’s body on the gurney.
“I wish there was no
one in there,” I say softly. Then I wipe away the last of my tears and retrieve my phone. “I need to call Tom.”
“Wait.” Seb catches my arm. “The police may want to handle that.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. “Dominic was Tom’s boyfriend and they broke up a few days ago. The police will want to question Tom.”
The realisation sinks in. My son is going to be a suspect. “I can’t not tell him,” I reply. “How can I sit and do nothing?”
“Just give it a few hours,” he insists.
I consider ignoring him and calling my son, but I don’t. I don’t know if it’s what Seb said about the police, or the unemotional way Tom told me that Dominic dumped him, but I put my phone back in my pocket. “Let’s go to the canteen then. Let’s get coffee.”
“No,” Donna says. “Let’s go home.”
After a sombre journey back to the farm, Donna goes to bed and we walk back to the cottage. I’ve never felt so exhausted. Not since the night in the cave have I felt so emotionally and physically drained, and I had been stabbed that night. It was the night Tom saved my life.
My son has saved my life twice. There is good in him, I know it. Yes, he killed David Fielding, but it was self-defence. There was nothing wrong with what he did that night, anyone else would have done the same. But can I deny that it changed him? Can I put my hand on my heart and say that Tom remained the sweet, thoughtful boy he was before that incident? Perhaps I can’t.
As we walk past the hedge where Pye the cat lurks, Seb stops, and blocks my way with his arm. He sees it first: the white envelope poking out of the letterbox.
“Did you catch the post today?” he asks.
“It usually comes in the morning when I’m having breakfast,” I reply. “I don’t remember anything arriving today.”
“Wait here,” he says.
I do as I’m told, scratching my forearms, a sick feeling laying low in my belly. The earlier snow has transformed into sleet. Slate-grey in the harsh tinge of night. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The letter box slaps shut when Seb removes the envelope from its grasp. He lifts it between finger and thumb, using a tissue as a barrier so as not to get his prints on it. There’s no writing on the front of the envelope. Whatever this is, it’s been hand delivered. Then he checks the door.
“Still locked.”
I walk up the path to unlock the door and we go into the kitchen, warmth hitting my numb face. Once inside, Seb puts on leather gloves and gently opens the letter with a knife.
He unfolds the note inside and spreads it out on the table. As the paper unfolds, it reveals the wings of a bird. A magpie in flight, with a necklace dangling from its beak. Looped into the necklace is a wedding ring, probably my mother’s, though it’s hard to tell. Still, this is clearly a taunt from Isabel.
“It was her,” I say, leaning over the illustration. “She killed Dominic and she might have your brother.”
I expect Seb to agree with me, but he doesn’t, he simply stares at the picture on the table, his shoulders hunched over. He’s exhausted, we both are. He thought his brother was dead. Even now, after identifying Dominic’s body, Josh could be dead somewhere, waiting to be found.
“We should pack a few things and sleep in the farmhouse tonight,” he says.
“Okay.”
“You nip to the bedroom and get us PJs and a change of clothes. Whatever else you need. I’m going to check the house.”
“Be careful.” I loop my arms around his neck and kiss him. Isabel hid in our attic for days waiting for the perfect opportunity to abduct me. Now all I can think about is him up there alone and it makes my heart twist. “Take a weapon.”
He goes into the cupboard below the sink and grabs a hammer. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Keep your phone close in case I do find anything.”
The house is unbearably quiet as I head upstairs to pack. I find myself analysing every one of Seb’s footsteps to check he’s safe. With each creak I wonder whether that was him or an intruder. Every thud. But as I zip up our holdall bag, Seb is coming back down from the attic, his face flushed.
“It’s empty.”
“Okay, let’s go then.”
We leave the magpie illustration on the kitchen table and make our way back to the farm.
***
The spare room at the farm has a lumpy mattress and I wake up with an ache in my lower back. Bending over the toilet to be sick doesn’t help either. Then the smell of cooked bacon drifts up from the kitchen and my appetite comes back immediately. But before I head down to eat, I call DCI Murphy to tell him about the illustration.
“Do you have any good news I can pass on to Seb and his mum?” I beg. “Any possible sightings? Did Josh use his debit card somewhere?”
“Sorry, Leah. We have nothing so far.”
“How is that possible in this village?”
“Well, we’re trying to find out.”
I’m about to end the call when I decide to ask him a few more questions. “Have you told Tom about Dominic yet?”
“Yes, a few officers went to his flat first thing this morning.”
“And Dominic’s parents know?”
“They’re on their way to formally identify the body.”
“Can you not tell Tom that I saw the body first?”
“Well, I can’t withhold information if it becomes relevant to the case,” he says. “But I won’t tell him unless I have to.”
“And you’re going to question him?”
“We’ll certainly take a statement. Are you all right, Leah? Is there something wrong?”
“How did Dominic die?” I ask.
“There’s an autopsy scheduled for later today to determine cause of death.”
“But… you must have had an initial investigation.”
“We have theories, but the autopsy will confirm those. Leah, you know I can’t give out this kind of information.”
“Sorry, I know. Sorry. I just didn’t know if he’d been murdered or not.”
“We’re treating the death as suspicious.”
“Yeah, I saw that on the news. And what about Anna Fielding? How did she die?”
He pauses. “Well, it’s about to be public knowledge anyway. She was strangled.”
“Was she carved?”
“No,” he admits.
“Maybe it’s because it was her mother,” I say. “Don’t you think that’s odd, though? Isabel nearly always carves bird wings into her victims.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “You should work for us. We’ve noticed that too and have factored it into our investigation. Look, I know you’re caught up in all this, but don’t start doing detective work, okay? Let us handle that side. You stay safe.” He sounds tired and drawn. I wonder how much sleep he’s getting. Then it dawns on me that I don’t care about Murphy’s wellbeing, all I want, is for him to be sharp enough to catch her.
“You need to find her,” I say. “This has to end. If you don’t find her, I’m going to die, and my unborn child is going to die along with me.”
“We’re working on—”
“Do whatever you need to do, DCI Murphy. Bend the rules. Break the rules. Fuck the rules. Find her.”
When he replies, telling me about how he’s arranged for a team to watch us for our safety, I’m barely listening. There’s a swirling in my head, the blood pumping hard around my body. I think I know what to do.
***
After breakfast, I tell Seb that I’m taking Isabel’s drawing to the police station so that they can dust it for prints. Which is true, I do take it, and I explain to DCI Murphy about the ring and what it all symbolises. Then I drive to Tom’s flat.
As I suspected, he’s home rather than at work. When he lets me in, he’s half-dressed and dishevelled like I woke him up. It’s almost lunchtime.
“Did you find out about Dominic?” he asks. He genuinely does look terrible, with bloodshot eyes and grey skin. There’s the scent of alcohol on his
breath.
“You broke your sobriety,” I say, and then I go into a mothering mode, gathering up dirty dishes to put in the sink. I fill Tom’s coffee pot and wait for it to brew. “Are you going to any meetings today?”
He shakes his head and reaches for a packet of cigarettes on the coffee table.
“Tom, I’m so sorry about Dominic.”
He lifts a cigarette to his lips and lights it. “I bet you think it was me.”
I move closer to him, but not too close. Seb would be angry if I was here, next to the young man suspected of murder. “Why would you say that?” It’s not so much of an exclamation than it is an authentic question. I want to know what he thinks we see in him.
“Because I’m a murderer,” he says. And then he breaks down. “You hate me. You don’t love me; you wish I’d never been born, and I wish that too.”
Now I go to him, and take his face in my hands, lifting his chin so that our eyes are level. In that face I see a broken little boy who is so lonely that it splits my heart in two. “I would never wish that Tom. Never. No matter what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t kill Dominic,” he says. “But I’m bad. I did an unforgivable thing.” His voice cracks. “Do you remember how powerless Dad would make us feel?”
“Yes.” Powerless to stop him, to make him stop hurting our mum, to help him quit drinking, yes, all those things and more.
“Well, there was one moment that made me feel powerful for the first time. Like I could take on the world.” He pauses and licks his lips. “David Fielding.”
There’s a chime in my mind, the familiar ring of his words. And then I remember what he talked about when he was at his AA meeting. He talked about how taking drugs made him feel powerful. Except… he wasn’t talking about drugs. I remove my hands and stand up straight. Why didn’t I figure this out before? Tom doesn’t go to AA because he’s addicted to drugs and alcohol, he goes because he’s addicted to violence. There was something else he said: I’ve been clean for two years.
Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3) Page 15
