Authors: Jack Jordan
‘The only person I want with me is my daughter.’
‘We are working as hard as we can to bring her back to you.’
‘Alive or dead?’
The detectives look at each other. Neither of them replies.
They know we won’t find her alive
.
Louise can’t help but fear that whoever took her daughter will come for her too; that it’s only a matter of time before she too is missing, and search parties are deployed to look for her remains.
Chapter Thirty-four
There are two search parties, with over fifty people in each. Men, women and children have emerged from their homes and gathered in separate groups. It’s almost as though they haven’t arrived at a search party for a missing girl, but for a local gathering: a day of fun. Mingling with the locals are out-of-towners, who have driven to Sinster to join the search. Everyone is enjoying the buzz and excitement of being involved, to be able to boast that they had been there when
that dead girl
was found.
Police officers armed with sniffer dogs are waiting to begin the search, while the volunteers congregate in separate groups outside the train station, discussing what they believe might have happened to the missing girl.
‘She was a pretty girl. She shouldn’t have been out at night on her own. Not in the dark. Not in this day and age.’
‘She probably ran off with a boyfriend. She’s probably laughing at all of this. It’s probably some sick, childish game.’
‘I heard she was a prostitute in London. She probably pulled the wrong punter, and paid for it with her own life.’
‘She can’t have had responsible parents. I certainly wouldn’t let my eighteen-year-old daughter travel from one side of the country to the other at night, on her own. It’s just common sense.’
‘She might have been groomed by a sexual predator online. You know how all these youngsters are with the Internet these days. They have no idea who they are really talking to.’
Louise listens to the bystanders with clenched fists. Her missing daughter is some sort of public scandal for others to feast on like parasites.
DI Jessica Dean appears at her side.
She looks tired, as though she hasn’t stopped thinking about the case since the start. Her shoulders are hunched against the bitter cold, while her gloved hands are hidden deep in her coat pockets.
‘How are you?’ she asks Louise.
‘Cold.’
‘DI Jones is leading the second party around the perimeter of the village and the outskirts, starting at your house. It’s a good turnout. Lots of people from the community have come to support you.’
Jessica speaks of it as though it’s a village fair and the top raffle prize is the possibility of getting a glimpse of Brooke’s cold corpse.
The volunteers standing nearby fall silent as they listen to Jessica comfort Louise. They appear embarrassed and look away awkwardly. They realise
Louise heard everything they said.
‘Support is the wrong word,’ she replies in a loud voice. ‘I’ve just listened to strangers accuse my daughter of being a prostitute and me of being a bad mother. If that’s support, I’m better off searching on my own.’
Some in the crowd look at each other, humiliated and horrified, and slowly move away, whispering under their breath.
‘I’m going to address the searchers, all right? Tell them what they need to look for. I’ll be a couple of minutes, and then we’ll begin.’
Jessica walks off towards the dispersing crowd and herds them together for a briefing. The officers are experienced and waiting. The dogs sit by their sides, panting, with their breath steaming in the air and their pink tongues lolling over their jaws.
‘My daughter died.’
Louise turns to see a man standing by her side. He’s looking ahead at the snow-covered town.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It was a long time ago. We searched like this. We searched for our daughter, as though she were alive and lost, not dead. My wife and I, we rang every hospital, and drove up and down every street that surrounded her house for hours and hours, hoping for a small clue. We stayed awake for days on end, longing to hear from her.’
He is quiet for a moment, as though he has been transported back to that time. His eyes are filled with pain: looking into the distance, but seeing something else in his mind. He returns his gaze to her. A single tear has fallen down his cheek. Grey stubble decorates his cheeks, his skin is slacking with age, and the whites of his eyes are beginning to turn yellow.
‘I know how it feels to lose someone you love. You’re not the only one. I would do anything to see her one last time, to change what happened.’
He looks out over the crowds of volunteers as if they are about to search for his daughter, not hers.
‘I just thought you should know.’
‘Thank you, that means a lot.’
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak another word. He rests his hand gently on her back before heading towards the crowd.
I’m not the only one
, Louise thinks.
I’m not the only one
.
***
The search party moves along quietly. Louise walks, almost in a trance, anticipating the excited call of a volunteer to say they have found something, while secretly hoping no one does. If they find something of Brooke’s, it means that she has definitely been taken
against her will, and that she has not got lost or run away. Louise doesn’t want such confirmation; she wants more time to believe that this is all a misunderstanding; a horrid nightmare.
The volunteers walk through the streets of the small village, scanning the ground for any clues: imprints in the snow, bloodstains, or anything out of place. Those not involved with the search peer out of the windows of their homes, staring curiously at those who pass. Some step outside and congregate on the front step, all of them watching in silence until Louise passes. She receives looks of sympathy and pity, mainly from other mothers. They can spot her grief a mile off. Her demeanour and appearance say it all: she maintains an upright stance, too terrified to relax in case she falls apart completely; her eyes are tired, puffy and bloodshot. The observers whisper about death. They point. They pity. They go inside and return to their own lives, forgetting all about Louise and her missing child.
DI Dean walks silently by Louise’s side, her boots crunching in the snow. Louise walks in a daze – not looking for clues, but simply staring at the ground – thinking of her daughter’s face, cherishing the memories while suffering the agony of losing her precious little girl. When she looks up, she scans the sea of strange, unfamiliar faces in the crowd and recognises two familiar ones: two faces she never wanted to see again.
Ruth and Timothy Andrews walk hand in hand among the other searchers, scanning the ground for clues like the rest.
She scowls at them, at their audacity. Before she even realises it, she is forcing her way through the crowd towards them, her hands shaking, her face reddening with growing rage.
‘What the
hell
are you doing here?’ she spits, grabbing Ruth’s shoulder and spinning her round.
Ruth gasps as she turns to face her. She gives Louise an apprehensive smile.
‘We wanted to help you during this horrible time,’ she replies, resting a gentle hand on Louise’s arm. ‘We extended our trip by another two days to do so.’
‘Don’t touch me,’ Louise snarls, pushing her arm away. ‘You’ve been hounding me ever since I came to the village, wanting my damn house, even when I’m going through
hell.’
Nearby volunteers stop searching and begin to encircle the mother of the missing girl. More and more volunteers congregate around the scene. DI Jessica Dean pushes through the gathering crowd towards the conflict.
‘You broke into my
house!
’ she yells, shoving Ruth into Timothy.
The crowd gasp and begin to throw comments at the couple.
‘
Crazy!’
‘Deluded!’
‘Culprits!’
‘Hey!’ Tim yells. ‘We were checking on you!’
‘You broke into my house and started looking around the place! You’re obsessed!’
The crowd’s protective disdain of the couple begins to grow, as pack-mentality quickly develops and more insults are hurled at the Andrews.
Louise points a shaking finger in Ruth’s face.
‘You are
never
going to have my house. You are
never
going to come near me again. You are
not
allowed to hound me while my daughter is missing. Leave!’
The crowd start shouting at the couple, pushing them away.
‘
GO AWAY!’
‘YOU’RE NOT WELCOME HERE!’
‘LEAVE THE POOR WOMAN ALONE!’
‘DON’T COME BACK HERE!’
Ruth and Timothy hold on to each other, their eyes wide with terror. The colour slowly drains from their faces at the crowd’s escalating contempt.
The crowd pushes the Andrews away, hurling abuse as they do so. The pair quickly flee the scene, not even daring to look back.
DI Dean manages to pull Louise aside.
‘What the hell was that?’ she asks.
‘They’ve been hounding me for days. They broke
into my house the day the robins were left on my bed. I went downstairs and they were in my home.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks, frantically. ‘They could be suspects in this!’
‘They wanted to buy the house. They said they saw the door open and came in to check on me, but instead I found them checking out the kitchen units and the bloody granite worktops.’
‘You still should have told me. That could have just been an excuse.’
‘Do you really think they…?’
‘I don’t know; I doubt it,’ DI Dean replies. ‘But if you want me to help you, you need to stop leaving aspects of what’s happening to you, unsaid. I need to know everything, Louise. Understand?’
She nods, still shaking from the confrontation with the Andrews.
Jessica calls out over the crowd and tells them to continue searching. The volunteers begin to calm down after all the excitement and spread out as they return their attention to the search.
Louise and Jessica walk in silence for ten minutes or so, both occupied with their own thoughts. Louise is thinking of her missing daughter; Jessica is thinking of her investigation.
Louise’s thoughts turn to Michael. She can’t help but loathe herself when she begins to crave her husband’s embrace: his hand stroking her hair while she rests her
head on his warm chest; Michael whispering sweet words into her ear.
‘I bet it was a shock, learning of your daughter’s entries in her journal.’
Louise slips out of the daydream of being in her husband’s arms.
‘It was.’
‘She sounded tormented by something. Do you think it might have anything to do with her disappearance?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘She wrote a lot of poems. Many of them about you.’
‘I used to slag off my mum in my journal too, when I was a teen.’
‘She wasn’t putting you down. She was talking about you as though you protected her from something, as though you were her saviour.’
‘I’ve been protecting Brooke her whole life.’
‘Does Brooke drive?’
Louise stops walking.
‘Why?’
‘I’m just trying to get as many facts as I can.’
‘Yes, she drives. She is also left-handed, prefers art to maths, and wants three children when she grows up. Would you like to know any more facts?’
‘Louise, I’m not trying to attack you. I’m trying to find out everything I need to know.’
‘She drove. Now she doesn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘She hit a deer once. Ever since then she has never been able to get behind the wheel.’
‘She hit a deer in London?’ Dean asks, suspiciously.
‘Yes, in London.’
‘I see.’
The two women continue to walk as light snow begins to fall.
‘Brooke refers to a particular event in her poems – a particular night. Do you know what she is referring to?’
Louise can barely breathe.
‘No.’
‘Only… she mentions you were there.’
‘Well, I don’t know what she’s talking about.’
‘Are you sure?’
Louise stops in her tracks. Jessica stops and turns to face her. They stare each other out.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘Do you have something to hide?’
The two women stare intensely at each other, unblinking.
Jessica’s phone begins to ring in her pocket. They continue to stare, even when Jessica answers the call.
‘Detective Inspector Dean.’
Her expression is suddenly one of shock. She looks away.
‘Where? Okay, I’ll be there soon.’
‘Have they found something?’
‘They’ve found something.’
Chapter Thirty-five
That Night
Robbie drives towards London with her seven-year-old son strapped in the back seat. Although it is a major road, it’s treacherous: the snow lands on the windscreen so fast, and is falling so heavily, that it’s difficult for her to see the road.
I cannot wait to get home
.
‘Can we make a snowman?’ Jamie signs with his hands, his lips still.
‘Another snowman?’ Robbie replies, her lips readable in the rear-view mirror. ‘We made one yesterday.’
‘Yes. So the first one has a friend. He might get lonely.’
Robbie smiles.
‘Yes. We will make another snowman tomorrow.’
Robbie and her son had driven to her parents’ house outside London; it was her father’s forty-fifth birthday. She couldn’t miss it: not now that the family has reconciled the rift that her teenage pregnancy caused. The poor driving conditions and constant snowfall have made her regret the decision. They should have stayed at home. However, Robbie learned from a young age never to say no to her
father.
The back tyres skid sharply to the right without warning. Robbie panics, steering first in the direction of the wheels, and then in the opposite direction. She presses down on the brakes and the car pulls back straight.
‘I don’t like driving in snow,’ Jamie signs.
‘I don’t either, Jamie,’ she replies, exhaling hard and trying to appear confident for her son. ‘We are nearly home now,’ she lies.