Two Years After ; Friends Who Lie ; No More Secrets

by Paul J. Teague

  Rosie washed the edges of the stone, then stood up, picked the bucket up by the handle, and moved to the other side of the grave. When she saw what had been taped to the reverse of the headstone, she dropped the bucket. The water seeped into the grass, forming a small puddle of drenched soil at her feet.

  A series of pornographic pictures, taken from the same sort of magazine as the pages stuck on Leonie’s car, had been taped securely to the stone. She looked at the grave to the right of Liam’s, then to the left, irrationally hoping that maybe somehow, this was a general act of vandalism rather than something that was specifically aimed at her.

  Rosie felt the walls of her life caving in on her. It wasn’t just the pressure of returning to work, the threat of losing her only source of income or the dysfunctional workplace she’d been forced to return to. It was the succession of unnerving events – the rat in the drawer, the late delivery through the letterbox, the mystery images on Facebook and now these pornographic magazine pages, lying in wait for her where she least expected it. Whoever it was had chosen places that were personal and private to her – her husband’s grave and her own home.

  Rosie tore the pictures off the headstone, screwing them up and throwing them on the ground. Then she screamed a very long scream of fear, frustration and despair.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rosie was interrupted by the sound of her phone, the distinctive ring tone that she’d set to identify when Iain was calling. She sat down on the bench and collected her thoughts.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said, accepting the call, trying her best to sound bright.

  ‘Hi, is that Rosie?’

  It was an unfamiliar voice. Rosie tensed.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Rosie, are you driving or doing anything which may cause you to have an accident while taking this call?’

  It was a female voice, definitely not somebody she knew.

  ‘Who the hell is this? What’s going on? Why do you have my dad’s phone?’

  ‘Rosie, I’m DI Sarah Fletcher. I need you to confirm that you’re in a safe place while you take this call.’

  ‘I am! Spit it out, what’s going on? Is Sam okay? Has something happened to Dad?’

  ‘Rosie, can I confirm that you are a relation of Iain’s?’

  ‘Yes, I’m his daughter. Please, tell me what the hell is going on.’

  ‘This is the only number programmed into your father’s mobile phone - that’s why we’re calling you. Your father has been the victim of an assault. The ambulance service rushed him to hospital.’

  ‘Oh my god, is he alright? How badly is he hurt?’

  ‘Try to stay calm, Rosie. He received a heavy blow to his head; he was found unconscious near some shrubs in Fountains Park. His face was badly bruised and paramedics were unable to give a prognosis at the scene. Where are you now Rosie? Can you come to the station?’

  ‘Are you at the park? I’m just across the road. I can be there in five minutes if I run.’

  ‘We’re there now Rosie – you’ll see us close to the bandstand. I’ll look out for you.’

  ‘What about Sam? Where’s Sam? Is he okay?’

  There was silence at the other end.

  ‘Rosie, I need you to tell me calmly – who’s Sam?’

  ‘Sam is my son; he’s two years old. He was in a pushchair. I was going to meet dad in the park.’

  ‘Rosie, is there any chance your father might have left Sam somewhere safe?’

  ‘No, he was looking after Sam. They were alone. He was taken, I know it. All this stuff that’s been going on, some weirdo has snatched him. I thought it was me they were threatening, not my child.’

  DI Fletcher’s voice became muffled, as if she had her hand over the mouthpiece. It sounded like she was consulting her team. Then she spoke clearly again.

  ‘Rosie, you have to join me in the park as soon as you can get here safely. I have several officers available, and I’ve just instructed them to begin a search of the park. Can you describe Sam to me, Rosie? Will I find a photograph of him on your father’s phone?’

  ‘No, my dad can barely work the phone, that’s why mine is the only phone number programmed in. I’m not even sure it can take photographs. Sam is like any other two-year-old. He has freckles and dark hair. He’s wearing a woolly, blue jacket with ladybird buttons. The pushchair is a three-wheeler – it has a black awning. There’s a plastic steering wheel attached to one of the handles. Is that enough? Please find him.’

  ‘We need to search the park before it gets dark. If you can come over here straight away, that will help considerably, Rosie. Please be careful. I’ll be waiting for you. We’re looking for Sam right now. I’ll see you soon.’

  Rosie ended the call. She hadn’t realised, but the tears were still flowing. Who was this terrorising their lives? And why? What the hell had she done to deserve this?

  She put her phone in her pocket and scanned the side paths of the cemetery to figure out the quickest way over to the park. It would be quicker to cross the busy main road if she used the exit closest to the crossing. She veered right, breaking into a run, desperate to get to the park, terrified for her dad and what might have happened to Sam.

  Was this some pervert or child offender? Was this why she’d been getting all the pornographic images? Had it been a warning of what was to come?

  She cursed herself for not having raised it with the police already. If she’d flagged it up straight away, this might never have happened. She’d never forgive herself if Sam had come to any harm.

  Soon, she was at the crossing, amid the steady Sunday evening traffic. Most of the cars now had their sidelights on. The police would have to move fast if they were going to be able to find Sam in the light. If it became dark, whoever had him would disappear into the night.

  She stood outside the grand Victorian stone entrance to the park, frantically trying to remember how to get to the bandstand. Taking a wrong turn would waste precious minutes. She glanced at every passer-by, wondering if they had hurt her father or if they were responsible for Sam going missing.

  Her heart thumped angrily, protesting about the speed of her run from the cemetery. It pounded as if it was going to explode, but she had to push through it.

  Think of Sam, she chanted to herself. Sam needs you more than ever now.

  Far ahead, she saw a blue flashing light, a clue to where she was heading. She carried on running, even though her legs told her to rest and her chest burned with the pain. Soon she saw them: three police vehicles and an ambulance. A mature woman was there, not in a uniform, but wearing a fashionable coat and black boots. Was that DI Fletcher? She gave Rosie a look of recognition and began to walk up to her as if those few metres might make all the difference.

  ‘Rosie?’ she asked. ‘What’s your surname? Here, sit on this bench while you get your breath back.’

  She placed her hand on Rosie’s shoulder and guided her towards an ornate, metal seat. It was cold, but Rosie didn’t care.

  ‘It’s Taylor,’ she replied. ‘Rosie Taylor.’

  ‘Do you have any ID on you?’ DI Fletcher asked, calm and measured.

  Rosie felt in her pocket and took out her purse.

  ‘Yes, what do you need? I’ve got a bank card. Here’s my work ID, is that any good?’

  She handed it to DI Fletcher who checked it and gave it back.

  ‘That’s great, Rosie, thank you. I hope you understand that we have to check.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she replied, fighting to control her breathing. ‘Now where’s Sam? Please – have you found him yet?’

  ‘I have officers searching the park.’

  Rosie jumped up from the bench.

  ‘I need to help them. We have to be out there looking for Sam.’

  ‘Rosie, you must stay calm. That’s the best thing you can do to help your son. We’re searching the park now, and if he’s here, we’ll find him. I need you to answer some questions first. That will give us the best ch
ance.’

  If Rosie could have turned into a gust of wind and blown through all four corners of the park in a moment, searching for her son, she would have. She wanted to be everywhere at once, but she was already exhausted from her run. It was best to sit for a moment.

  The ambulance pulled away. Her dad… oh God, she hadn’t even asked about him. ‘Is Dad ok?’

  DI Fletcher looked like she was steeling herself. She waited for Rosie to calm and settle.

  ‘He’s in good hands - the paramedics know what they’re doing. Is there any chance that your father could be becoming forgetful, Rosie? Might he have left Sam somewhere?’

  ‘No, he’s still sharp as a tack, my dad. He wouldn’t have forgotten Sam. I would have noticed if that was happening, wouldn’t I?’

  She thought about her father. He was walking more slowly and his voice had become reedier since her car accident, but that was down to growing old, wasn’t it? She couldn’t remember what she’d done five minutes ago, so how would she spot if her father was in the early stages of dementia? Is that what the DI was suggesting?

  ‘Rosie, I need to ask you some delicate questions now. I want you to know that we’re making a detailed search, so if he’s in this park, we’ll find him.’

  ‘You know already, don’t you?’ she asked.

  DI Fletcher nodded.

  ‘We know that you’ve been struggling with your mental health, Rosie. Your records show that social care raised concerns about the safety of Sam. We also know that you didn’t want your father to become Sam’s ward while you were ill. I’m not suggesting anything, Rosie. But you do understand that I have to ask, don’t you?’

  It always came back to this. Every time Rosie tried to claw her way out of the pit, they pulled her back down again.

  ‘I would never harm my son,’ she said, her words precise and controlled.

  ‘I know you’d never do it intentionally, Rosie. But mental illness can be a complex issue. Sometimes it can make us do things which are not in our nature.’

  ‘I did not harm Sam. I was in the cemetery at the time, visiting my husband’s grave.’

  ‘Did you attack your father, Rosie? I have to ask.’

  ‘No! I love my dad,’ she protested. ‘I would never hurt him. And the only reason I didn’t want him to become Sam’s ward is that I felt so damned ashamed. I felt such a miserable failure as a mother.’

  She was trying to hold back her tears, but she couldn’t stop them. She wanted to be in control like DI Fletcher, but the torrent of emotions rioting through her body prevented that.

  A police officer, dressed in uniform, had approached them from behind. Rosie hadn’t noticed until she was dimly aware of somebody hovering to her side. It looked like he’d been keeping his distance, waiting to get the nod from the DI to approach.

  ‘What is it?’ DI Fletcher asked, ‘Do we have any news about Sam?’

  The police officer was concealing something in his hand. He held it out towards them.

  ‘We found this near the boating lake,’ he began. ‘Does it belong to your child, madam?’

  It was a plastic steering wheel which looked like somebody had stamped on it and attempted to smash it. Rosie recognised it immediately as Sam’s.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rosie recognised the signs before she admitted them to herself. She was blanking things out again, which she hadn’t done for months. DI Fletcher had reassured her that discovering the broken toy didn’t mean any harm had come to Sam. She also recalled how DI Fletcher had put her arm around her and held her firmly as she sobbed. And she had a vague memory of being asked if she needed to take any medication or if there was somebody she could call.

  When Rosie drifted back into the present once again, it was as if she’d had an out-of-body experience and was waking from a bad dream; the fear, the terror and the sweat were all there. But when she looked around her, all she could see was a park gradually fading into the darkness of night and a police officer who seemed out of his depth.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do here for the time being, Rosie. Why don’t I run you over to the hospital to see your dad? How does that sound?’

  The DI’s steady voice served as a bridge from Rosie’s fraying mind to the present.

  ‘What about Sam? I can’t leave Sam.’

  ‘The moment they find him, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Are you sure? Shouldn’t we be helping or something?’

  ‘The best thing we can do right now is to stay calm and be ready. Is there anybody you want to call, Rosie? Let me take you to your dad. We’ll know the moment that Sam is found, I promise you.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll find him? Will he be alive?’

  Every time she thought about it, Rosie felt her sanity slipping away. She needed to hang on, to stay with DI Fletcher, for Sam’s sake. She couldn’t drift away, even though oblivion was beckoning her now.

  ‘I’ll call Vera,’ she said, fumbling for her phone.

  ‘Who’s Vera?’ DI Fletcher asked. ‘Is she family?’

  ‘No, she’s the psychiatric nurse who helped me to get well again,’ Rosie replied. ‘She knows how to help me. She knows what to do.’

  The dial tone sounded, but there was no answer and no voice mail either.

  ‘Damn it!’ Rosie cursed.

  ‘It’s okay,’ DI Fletcher said. ‘My car is parked up just behind the bandstand. Let’s go and see how your father is doing. If they find Sam, they’ll bring him to the hospital to give him a check-up. We’ll be in the right place.’

  Rosie stood up and waited for the DI to guide her. It reminded of her of Trinity Heights when Vera would give her the medication, and she’d be completely compliant, waiting to be told what to do.

  If there was one big advantage to living in London, it was that everything was clustered close together. The Sunday traffic was conducive to a fast drive, and they were at the reception desk of the hospital in no time. Rosie was accustomed to the clinical nature of the decor, and the crisp pressed linen of the nurse’s uniforms. She wanted to sink into it and allow the caring arms of the medical profession to take her in and soothe away all her troubles.

  DI Fletcher took the lead, looking like she’d done this a million times before. She flashed her ID, checked Iain’s full name and date of birth with Rosie and noted the ward number and wing details. She strode confidently through the corridors as if she’d memorised every inch of the medical labyrinth. The signage pointed the direction like a hypochondriac’s almanac, listing every possible problem that a human being might suffer: oncology, renal, cardiology and orthopaedic. It was a Who’s Who of things that might kill you. They were heading for Neurology; Rosie knew that could mean brain damage and it wasn’t good.

  ‘They’re taking your dad for a scan,’ DI Fletcher updated her. ‘They’re still not entirely certain whether he fell or was struck from behind.’

  ‘Is he going to die?’ Rosie asked. ‘Is my dad going to make it?’

  She thought of how she would cope if he died. She couldn’t face visiting another grave up at the cemetery. They were on rotation now; Liam and Phoebe got weekly visits and her mum was relegated to once-monthly. It was a large cemetery; her mum’s grave was on the far side, well away from Phoebe and Liam.

  She had to believe that Sam would be okay, because it was unbearable to contemplate her son coming to any harm. Rosie had been to some desolate places, but the idea of losing a second child was beyond darkness; it was the abyss.

  She took a chair in the waiting area, and DI Fletcher brought her a plastic cup filled with soup. It reminded her of going swimming as a child. She’d be sitting there, her hair still wet while her dad bought a packet of crisps from the machine and a hot drink of her choice. She always chose the soup. It reminded her of family for some reason.

  ‘We need to think ahead to tonight,’ DI Fletcher said quietly, after taking a sip of her black coffee. ‘Is there anybody who can stay with you if we don’t find Sam?’


  Rosie was embarrassed to answer that question. Her father was it. If he was out of the picture, she had nobody that she could rely on. Sure, she knew people at work; Haylee, Annabelle, even James. But they were colleagues, not friends. Friends had been in short supply while she’d been in Trinity Heights.

  ‘I’ll be okay on my own,’ she replied. ‘I’ll call my friend Leonie – she’ll come round if I need her.’

  Rosie reached for her phone. She still had the pictures on it. Perhaps she should show them to DI Fletcher? She navigated to Facebook, her thumb working away on the small screen. There were no new messages.

  She tapped the bell icon to open up her notifications. That couldn’t be right – there were no images from the profile with James’ name on it. She scrolled down, making sure she hadn’t done anything stupid. It wasn’t as if she got many notifications. There was nothing there. Had the person deleted the account? Would that remove the notifications? Or had she imagined it? She cursed herself for not downloading the images onto the device, but that would have been stupid – she never wanted to see those horrible pictures ever again.

  A doctor walked up to them, a clipboard in hand. It was such a hackneyed image, but it primed her for what was coming.

  ‘Ms Taylor, DI Fletcher,’ he held out his hand to be shaken by each of the women. Rosie noticed it was wet and clammy. She hoped that wasn’t because he was about to deliver bad news.

  ‘Mr Ingram is in a stable condition, but we’ve induced a temporary coma, for his welfare.’

  ‘Will he die?’ Rosie asked. She dreaded the answer. If he died, it would be game over. She couldn’t navigate her way through another bereavement.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the doctor replied. ‘We are concerned about potential brain damage, and there are signs that your father is in the early stages of dementia. We’ll have a clearer picture tomorrow morning. It’s always quiet around here on a Sunday, as I’m sure you can imagine.’