“But that’s over two weeks I can’t remember. And after that things were shit, pretty much universally, for a long time. Dad – he wasn’t the same after. He drank quite a bit, used to just sit and watch TV. He always watched a lot of TV but it was different, you know. Or maybe I noticed it more – without Alex to drag me outside to play. Anyway, Mum just soaked up all of that sadness…”
Silence fell again. I thought about all the years I’d spent wondering if Erin remembered more than the press knew. Wondering if the police might be holding something back. But now I realised that wasn’t what had happened. She’d banged her head, and she’d forgotten it all.
I probably knew just as much, if not more, about what happened to her than she did.
“You know,” she said, giving a wry laugh and finishing her cigarette, “if I had the choice between the woods and certain death? Even now? I think I still wouldn’t choose the bloody woods ever again.”
“Fuck, Erin. I’m sorry, I—”
Before I knew what was happening, Erin had leaned towards me again. Closer this time. Too close. Her lips grazed my cheek and my heart leapt in my chest and I stumbled away. My body ached to stay there, next to her, to feel her solid warmth against my arm. But I couldn’t. This was meant to be business.
“No,” I said. More bluntly than I meant to.
Even in the dark I could see Erin’s blush. Her expression changed from its smirk to something else, embarrassment unfolding.
“I…”
“I don’t think so. I don’t…” I pushed away from the wall, my tongue twisting in knots.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ve – we’ve been drinking. I can’t. It’s not right…”
“I’m not actually that drunk.”
I was already walking, my feet tripping over themselves to get some space as much as the rest of my body hummed to stay next to her. Guilt wrapped itself in my chest. I didn’t know what I was doing; I didn’t know how to feel. I’d never thought of being with anybody, never mind a girl like Erin. And now it was all I could think about. But it was the alcohol, that blunt emotional honesty. Laying everything bare.
I stopped. Turned.
“Wait,” I said. Hope flared in her eyes, but that only made it worse. “No, I mean… will you be able to get a taxi okay?”
For a second I thought Erin might swear at me but she didn’t.
“I’ll be fine,” she said quietly.
“I’m – I’m sorry. I just… I’m trying to be professional and…”
“Harriet, it’s – it’s fine. Whatever. Okay? I’ll get a taxi home. Thank you for dinner.”
TWELVE
Harriet
I MADE IT ALL the way back to my flat before I checked my phone. I hoped by the time I got there Erin might have texted me. Might have… said what? Something. Anything. I felt like the world’s biggest idiot – but I wasn’t sure whether I was angry at myself for letting my guard down or for not kissing her back.
It was the wine. The stress of the memorial. Erin probably hadn’t meant anything by it. But I was supposed to be the one who was in control; I was the one who had come into her life and disrupted it, so I should be responsible for what happened.
I tried to push down the feeling that grew in my chest, like I’d blown it. Not just for myself, but for the book. We’d finally been getting somewhere – Erin had opened up about herself without prompting, and that was important. And now I wasn’t sure if she was mad at me.
I made coffee and drank a full cup before I could face my office and all of the notes and files within. It was really late, but knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while. I shot another quick email to Thomas, noticing he’d finally replied, with no real content. Sorry Sis. So busy ADVENTURING. Saw a spider the size of my FOOT yesterday. Getting settled at the new job, Jessica says hi. You sound busy. Will Skype in a few days, ok? Lots of love, Tom.
I went back to work. It was no good wishing that he’d be my sounding board, so I had to do this myself. I laid my scrapbook images out like a tarot spread, pictures and newspaper clippings for each of the missing pairs of children. I started with Jeremy and Michael. They were abducted on 3 July 1994. The photos I’d chosen for my file were the ones they used in the press. I had other pictures, ones my aunt and uncle had given me, which would go in the final book, but when I was writing I preferred to use the official media pictures; it made it easier to separate myself from them. Author from subject.
My cousins both had hair like burnished gold, that glorious autumn shade between brown and blond, smiling in their school pictures. Michael had a cheeky grin, one dimple.
I laid their photos to one side and read my initial notes. The boys were found three months apart, Mikey first on 18 July, two weeks after their abduction. My aunt and uncle said the autopsy suggested he’d probably been dead around a week. Jem was found on 6 October, miles and miles away from his brother, and he’d probably been dead for around six weeks. There was a suspiciously high level of insulin in Mikey’s body, and although the tests were inconclusive the same was suspected for Jem. The theory was that they had been injected with it, and this is what had killed them.
They had both been dressed in pyjamas when they were found, but they weren’t the ones they’d been wearing when they were taken. The police tried to identify the clothes, but they were store-bought from a large chain and had been on sale for months.
The boys both seemed well-fed, clean. Cared for, except they were dead.
Next were George and Jacob Evans – Molly’s twins. They were taken at the start of the summer of 1995, almost a year after Jem and Michael. Only George was ever found. It had taken dental records to figure out which of the boys had died; he’d been injected with insulin, like my cousins, but his body had ended up in the River Derwent, which had left him in a bit of a state.
Morgan and Paul were taken in July 1996, a year after George’s body was found. Morgan turned up almost another full year later. She had been healthy, but her body was more badly bruised than any of the other children. When she’d died, she hadn’t gone quietly. But the bruises hadn’t led the police anywhere – publicly at least. No handprints or weapon imprints of any kind that they could confirm. All we knew was that they occurred perimortem and hadn’t had time to heal. Like the other children, Morgan had died from an insulin overdose. The autopsy had confirmed that she had been alive, and eating, less than a few hours before her body was found. Unlike the other children, though, he kept her alive for eleven months before finally killing her.
Charlotte and Hazel Davies were taken two months after Morgan’s estimated date of death, disappearing from their beds in August 1997. Neither of them were ever found. And less than a year later, Randeep and Jaswinder went missing from their home in Burton.
This was where the pattern changed. Randeep and Jaswinder were abducted on 3 June and by 13 October the Father had struck again, stealing Erin and Alex Chambers on a warm autumn night. Two pairs of siblings in four months.
Auntie Sue said that at the time they wondered if he was devolving. Losing patience. Everybody was hoping it would mean he would slip up, make the sort of mistake that might allow the police to nail him. When Erin escaped it made people feel almost hopeful. But there was still no helpful evidence.
I recalled the tension, the summer following Erin’s return. Everybody waiting with baited breath. Windows locked, curtains drawn in my house immediately after dark, official warnings on how to keep children safe. And then, when nothing happened, the relief. The same again the following year, and the one after that, until even the ghostly memory of Morgan with her eleven long months of captivity seemed to fade. The Father was gone. Finished. Perhaps licking his wounds after Erin’s miraculous escape? Or perhaps locked up for arson and then dead in prison, like I’d once hoped.
But it was too late for all of the children he had hurt, and the broken families left behind. I thought about Morgan, the way she had been held away from her family fo
r all that time before dying anyway. It wasn’t fair.
I sat back, checked my phone. Nothing. I hoped Erin had made it home alright. I should have watched her get into a taxi.
I stared at the sheets of paper in front of me. I still, even days later, couldn’t figure out exactly how Isaac Higgins and Oscar Tyrrell fit into all of this. They’d gone missing in 1993. But, like Detective Godfrey had pointed out, it hadn’t been during the summer. It had been early March.
I kept coming back to the same things: how did the Father choose the children? And why did he take them at all? But I couldn’t focus. Tonight all I could think about was Erin’s face after I turned away from her. It was just a kiss on the cheek, but something about it had scared me. Maybe in a good way.
I didn’t want to mess it up.
A sound outside the door of my flat made me jump. The empty study seemed to echo around me. I laid my notes aside and stood hesitantly. Listened. For a long while I heard nothing but my own breathing.
Then it happened again.
It was like a knock at my door. A single one. Knuckles on wood. I tiptoed out into the hall, and then towards the door. The spy hole was misty, but I peered through it anyway. I caught glimpses of shadows, the warped knot of my doormat kicked too far away from the door, my neighbours’ neat and tidy across the hall. They were on holiday.
“Hello?” I said. “Is anybody there?”
No response.
I undid the latch and slowly opened the door. I didn’t know what I expected, but the entry was abandoned. Silent. My heart thudded and I let out a short breath of relief.
And then I noticed the lift. It was going down.
THIRTEEN
7 NOVEMBER 2016
Erin
I’D WOKEN UP THIS morning with another migraine and decided to work from home. I chucked down a couple of strong painkillers and a cup of tea, and lit a few unscented candles before settling on the sofa. But I was jumpy, and the residual headache wasn’t helped by Wendy, who’d texted me checking in mid-morning and sent me into another spiral of worry about the break-in. I couldn’t reconcile what I thought had happened. Was it an interrupted burglary or a prank? I wanted to believe it hadn’t happened at all, that I’d made the whole thing up, but I couldn’t get past the idea that I’d never have left that window open.
And then there was the doll. Mum said she didn’t remember leaving it there, but she’d had a box full of things for me to sort through. Had I found it and put it in my bedroom? I didn’t think that was possible, that I might have forgotten something like that, but how else could it have ended up on my bed? Perhaps the police officer had found it somewhere else and moved it. The uncertainty gnawed away at me.
I wasn’t getting anywhere with my latest website project anyway; my head was all over the place. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night, too. The way Harriet had reacted. The feeling of embarrassment was worse today – perhaps because I’d had more to drink than I thought. But I had no reason to be embarrassed. It wasn’t like I had to worry about Monica any more. Our relationship had been casual for a long time before it ended anyway.
I’d sent her several messages over the last few days. The only response she’d deigned to give me was a single text which just said leave me alone. I knew better than to push her but I couldn’t help feeling bad about the other night.
My brain kept coming back to Harriet. I hadn’t even kissed her properly, so why did I feel so embarrassed? Perhaps it was because it hadn’t happened and I wanted it to.
The painkillers had taken the edge off my headache but the migraine made my brain feel too woolly for work. I found myself drifting back to what Harriet had said about her cousins and those other boys. I needed to know more. I needed to find out if Harriet’s hunch was more than a hunch.
I did a Google search for the runaway foster brothers. I’d let her tell me about them over dinner, but I didn’t know why. What was I hoping for? Did I want them to be connected to Alex and me, or was I hoping that it was all in Harriet’s head? Why was I torturing myself?
I started my search with their names: Oscar Tyrrell and Isaac Higgins missing. There were a couple of articles, old newspaper links and references to the case on a few blogs. I waded through it all, but found little more than I already knew. The boys had run away from their foster home in the middle of the night, were spotted at a bus station the following day, and after that they were never seen again.
I tried every search I could think of, across various websites and social media. I even trawled through Reddit. I managed to find another newspaper article, more recent, which led me to Facebook.
There was a page, last updated in 2009, created by the boys’ foster mother, Jenny Bowles. It was a cross between a self-help page for parents whose children had run away from home, and something else. Something angrier. I scrolled through the posts, noticing that the more recent ones Jenny Bowles had posted were different from the early ones. The later ones were less about her children running away and more generalised, about her loss, her anger. Almost as if she’d changed her mind about what had happened to them.
And then I found an address – a home address – and a contact number. The page asked for all kind mail to be directed to a residential address in Derby. “Your warm wishes have supported me through my tough times. Thank you. P.S. NO INTERVIEW REQUESTS.”
Derby. That wasn’t far from Arkney.
My stomach twisted as I realised I wanted to talk to her.
* * *
Half an hour later I pulled up outside the address I’d grabbed from the Facebook page. I knew it was a risk turning up without any confirmation that Jenny was still living here, but after last night I felt a strong urge to confirm what Harriet had told me.
Google Maps led me to an area just outside of Derby city centre. The address was for a block of flats, newer than a lot of the properties around it, which were a bit run-down and grubby. I parked in the courtyard. Then, on second thought, I pulled back out onto the road, tucking the mirrors in and hiding my valuables in the glove box before stepping out.
I peered at the list of names next to the door and felt a flutter of excitement, or fear, when I saw the little white sticker marked J Bowles. I pressed the buzzer.
Nothing.
I held it again, this time for longer.
Finally, something happened. There was a faint crackling sound on the other end and then a weedy female voice came on the box.
“Yesss?”
“Sorry to bother you. My car broke down outside. I was wondering if I could come inside to use your phone? Mine’s run out of battery.” I wasn’t about to make the same mistake as Harriet.
There was a muffled sound, followed by a click. Then a long exhale.
“Okay… Come up a floor. The door’s open.”
Another exhale. Another click. Then the door buzzed. I followed the stairs upwards until I hit another corridor, a dark blue carpet leading me down a short hallway towards a door at the end. I knocked quickly but didn’t wait. The door swung open to reveal a brightly lit entrance hall painted a cheerful blue.
“Hello?” I called.
“In the lounge, duck.” Another exhaling sound.
I followed the sound off to the left and into a small sitting room. It was decorated in shades of gold and brown paisley. Not exactly tasteful but lived in. There was a sofa against the back wall; the woman sitting on it was probably in her late sixties. Tightly curled grey hair framed her face and her eyes were very blue.
I spotted the source of the breathing sound immediately. Hooked up to her nose was a tube which ran down to a canister sat on the floor. She regarded me with a shrewd gaze and then smiled when she decided I didn’t pose a threat. I wondered if she made a habit of letting strangers into her flat when she was so clearly unable to defend herself.
“Excuse me not getting up, duck,” she said. “You said your car broke down?”
I didn’t flinch. It was too late to change my story now.<
br />
“Yes. Just outside. Can I borrow your phone to call AA? As I mentioned, my phone battery died, and I don’t know the area very well.”
Jenny Bowles gestured towards a vintage-style black handset sitting on a table beside the sofa. I thought fast as I tried to figure out how to play this.
I eyed the phone and then decided. I dialled the number of my landline, hoping that it looked like a legitimate number for a car repair should anybody bother to check. When the number went to voicemail I did my best to sound like I was having a conversation with somebody.
I glanced around. Across the mantelpiece of an electric fire there were photographs. Too many for me to see which ones might be Isaac and Oscar.
After I hung up I turned to smile at the lady again.
“They’re sending somebody out. Said it would be about twenty minutes.” I let this hang in the air and kept my face expectant yet friendly.
“Do you want to stay while you wait?” she asked. Very trusting. I wondered if I looked more sympathetic than Harriet, with her glossy red hair and intimidating stare. I wondered what she’d say when I told her I’d come here.
“Thank you,” I said. I gestured towards the photographs on the mantel with one hand. “Are those your family?”
“My children.” She let out an exhale sound again and smiled. “Lots of them. I’ve had lots of babies over the years.” She paused. “They’re all my babies; fostered or adopted, but all mine.”
I sank down onto the sofa near her, my hands pressed between my knees. I didn’t know how to ask her about Oscar and Isaac. In the end, I didn’t have to.
“They’re all up there,” she said. “Even the two that were taken from me.”
The Final Child Page 9
