For a moment, she had almost believed him.
It had all tumbled away from her then. Had told her parents, words digging into her throat. Her mother resting her head in her hands. You’ll have to get married. It’s the right thing to do. Cecilia shaking her head, but doing it without conviction. I’m telling you. Motherhood is tough. You don’t want to do this alone. A screaming baby. Enough to push anyone to the edge. You know how it was for me. If he’s willing…her mother had shrugged…you tie him down. You won’t be able to do it on your own, Cece. It’s not in your nature. And then, before she could turn around it seemed, she was married, in a civil ceremony in a scuffed registry office, her parents and Tom’s mother the only witnesses. The air had been clogged, a stupefying July day, heat pressing down on her chest so that she couldn’t breathe. Everything in her pulling her backwards, telling her to run, because this isn’t the life she wants. But her mother’s fingers are wrapped around her arm, whispering something about cold feet being natural, and there’s a wall of pressure at her back, so that she can’t turn around either. And then they were married, and it was too late. They went for a meal afterwards, in a little bistro that no-one really liked. Her father had drunk too much, not looking at her, or anyone else, concentrating steadily on the bottom of his wine glass, her mother laughing too loudly, like she thinks if she makes enough noise she can distract from her husband. Then when they were done, she had hugged Cecilia, whispering about how she had done the right thing, because otherwise, what would people have thought?
It was three months later that her parents announced they were getting a divorce. A late night phonecall from her father, slurring his words. That slut. Having an affair. Moving to Glasgow with her fucking boyfriend. Cecilia had cried, from frustration or anger or childish despair she wasn’t sure.
Cecilia buried her head in the pillow. But it didn’t help. The walls still crept closer, licked with flames, and the sheets still smelled of petrol and death. She pushed back the bedding, movements too quick so that her arm jarred and pain shot through her. She wanted to be sick.
“I’m sorry, boss. I know. It’s just…”
It took three lifetime long strides to cross the bedroom. One herculean wrench to pull open the door.
Tom looked like he hadn’t slept. He started when he saw her, like he was seeing a ghost, and for a brief moment Cecilia wondered if that was exactly what she was. But her arm still throbbed and her head still spun and surely that didn’t happen if you were already dead. His chestnut hair stood upright the way it did after a long day, when he’d run his fingers through it too many times. He wasn’t someone that she had every really considered to be good looking, rather, if she was being generous, on the more attractive side of average. He looked like he’d lost weight since she’d seen him last. Was that even possible in the day that she had been gone? Cecilia leaned against the doorframe, eyes fighting to close again, to slip back. “It’s okay.” Her voice came out rough, stale from lack of use. “Go.”
“Sorry, boss, just a sec.” He cupped the mouthpiece with his hand. His wedding ring glinting in the winter sunlight. “They’ve found a woman’s body. Some guy walking his dog in Swansea called it in. It’s okay, I’ve already said I’m not going in.”
“Go.”
“I…”
“It’ll be better. I’d rather.” She didn’t see him nod, even though she knew he would have. Didn’t see his shoulders slump in that way they did when he had tried and she had shoved him away. Just heard him say.
“Boss? I’m on my way.”
Chapter 10
Jim - Friday, 16th March – 9.28am
Jim had remained at the station late into the night, arms folded tight across his chest, pacing worn out linoleum as the kid rang DI Nate Maxwell, the DI rang someone else, and suddenly the office flooded with people. Because that was what happened when there was a problem with one of your own. The air filled with hurried voices, the clacking of computer keys, the clunk of phones hitting cradles. People that he didn’t recognise had hurried past him, pulling thick coats on over dark suits. Going to look for his daughter.
Jim’s stomach knotted, like it had that time in Sainsbury’s when she was five, when he’d turned around and she was gone and a spasm of fear had gripped him from the inside and he’d run down aisles until he found her, tiny hands reaching upwards, helping herself to the pick and mix. Any minute now. Any minute now the phone would ring or a radio would spark to life, and the people he didn’t know would look up, faces relieved. They’d say “Mr. Hanover. Your daughter’s on the phone.” Then they’d laugh at what they had all thought, and his insides would unclench, just like that day with the pick and mix.
It was midnight before the DI came. Nate Maxwell’s eyes searching the office for Jim, and for an instant they are in the pub again, or on the golf course, anywhere but here. Nate had been out on the streets, looking, even though it wasn’t really his job. Had lain his big burly hands on Jim’s tight tensed shoulders. “Go home, Jim. Nothing you can do here.”
Jim had known that he was right, knew that Esther would be waiting for him. His wife would have spent the evening ironing. She did everyone’s - his, Ethan’s, Libby’s - said that she enjoyed it, that she found it relaxing. Then when she was done she would sit down with a treat, a small glass of Bailey’s – just the one – and by now she would be a little bit giggly. Jim had thought that he might be sick. He’d called her, I’ve bumped into a couple of the boys. Going to pop to the pub for a couple of pints. You know, quick drink. You mind? Esther laughing and saying that it was like the old days, not to expect her to peel him off the kitchen floor when he’d had too many. And he’d laughed along with her, the sound ripping a hole in his gut, and prayed and prayed and prayed that he would never have to make her feel what he felt. Because surely if he waited long enough then it would all be all right. Then he would tell her. When he had Libby safe in his arms. When everything was okay. He’d tell her then.
“Come on. I’ll drive you.” Nate had put an arm around his shoulder, steering Jim towards the door, and suddenly, he was too tired to resist any more, was being led downstairs and out to the parking lot, through the snow, into an unmarked car and driven home, all the while gazing out of the window as if he actually expected to see her on the side of the road.
Esther had been in bed by the time he got in, back turned to him, breathing soft. He had slipped into bed and stared at the ceiling and waited.
Any moment and then the phone will ring and it will all be okay.
Then it was morning, a grey unyielding morning, and the phone still hadn’t rung. He lay there whilst Esther stirred, listening to the patterns of her breathing change, to her stretching, throwing back the covers and slipping her feet into the slippers that Libby bought her last Christmas. Listened to her padding from the bedroom, movements cautious because she didn’t want to wake him.
Then Jim had prayed. He had prayed like he hadn’t since he was a boy when he believed that prayers could come true.
The television was on in the kitchen, the air sweet with the smell of freshly made welshcakes. He poured himself coffee, watching as Esther deftly worked the dough, flicking tawny coloured hair from her eyes with flour covered fingers.
“This is awful.” She nodded at the television where the screen glowed with orange flames. “Did you hear about the plane?”
Jim sipped the coffee, grimacing. It was too bitter. He hadn’t added his usual sugars. It just didn’t seem right. “No.” Because there was no world outside. There was nobody beyond his family and his life and his missing daughter.
“Terrible. Those poor people.”
He felt sick.
“Did you speak to Ethan?” Esther flopped dough onto the floured kitchen counter.
“Huh?” Jim wasn’t listening, was staring down into his coffee.
“Ethan. Did you call him?”
“Um, no. No. Not yet.”
“You should. I think he’s really down. You know, what with everything.” Esther pulled the rolling pin from the drawer. “I don’t know. It’s such a shame. Poor boy tried so hard.”
“Yeah.” Jim nodded, but no matter how hard he tried, just couldn’t think about his son, his career disappointments, not when his daughter was missing.
Esther was pushing down on the dough, twirling the rolling pin in her hands, turning the ball into a flattened sheet, when the doorbell rang. She had started, looking up with that empty look of innocent surprise. “Who’s that now?”
Jim didn’t move. He couldn’t seem to drag himself from the kitchen table, couldn’t seem to make his legs move. Watched his Esther, wiping her hands, leaving white streaks on her dark apron. He wasn’t breathing, couldn’t possibly because his heart had stopped and the air frozen in his lungs. Heard the creak of the front door. Knew what was about to come.
There was the low bass mutter, then Esther again, voice bubbling over with suppressed laughter. Like champagne, he’d always thought. Then there were footsteps, heavy on the carpeted floor, and Esther, still smiling because she simply hasn’t realised that this is the moment that their world will end.
“Jim, look who it is. Come on, have a seat, Nate. Coffee? I’ve got fresh welshcakes.”
The kitchen smelled of sugar and cinnamon and coffee. Esther clinking, reaching for the good mugs. And Nate, his face locked into that look, the one that Jim had worn a hundred times before.
He couldn’t watch anymore, just dropped his head and closed his eyes, like a child diving under the quilt to hide from a bogeyman.
“Why don’t you come and sit down, Esther?” It was there in Nate’s voice too, soft, sad, thick with the warning of what will come next. She must have heard it, because she suddenly stopped moving, the instincts of a policeman’s wife, one who had finally relaxed her guard after thirty years of worrying, suddenly alert again.
“What’s going on? Jim?”
He couldn’t look up. If he looked up then she would know. Her world would crumble and he would have crumbled it. He just reached out, gripping her hand tight.
“Jim?”
“It’s our Libby, Ess.” He looked up then, wrapping his hand tighter around her shaking fingers. “He’s here about Libby.” He lifted his chin and looked at Nate, gaze steady although it seemed that the world swirled around him. “What is it, Nate?”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Libby?” Her voice was tighter now, fighting back panic, and she spun her gaze from him to Nate and back again.
But Nate was looking at Jim and Jim was looking back and in that moment he knew that it was over.
Chapter 11
Tom - Friday, 16th March - 10.48am
They sat on chairs, tables. Tom sat on his desk, leaning his back against the wall, one hand wrapped around his knee. He’d given Maddie his chair. He stared at the white board, trying desperately not to notice the smell of her perfume, the rounded curve of her belly. She was rubbing her belly, over and over again, sunlight sparking against her diamond wedding ring, head bowed so that her hair fell across her eyes. Tom knew that she was doing it so that she wouldn’t have to look up, wouldn’t have to see the picture of a dead Police Community Support Officer tacked to the white board.
“It’ll be better. I’d rather.” Cecilia had leaned against the spare room door, hadn’t looked at him as he cradled the phone in his fingers. A bruise had flourished now, wrapping itself around his wife’s right eye. Tom had hung there, dangling in indecision. He should stay anyway. He should stay. It would only be right. But then, she didn’t want him there, she needed some time to herself, and hadn’t she been through enough already without him forcing himself on her. He had tried to smile, had pushed back the words that clambered over his tongue. You left us. You left your son. Instead he had nodded. He would go to work. Pretending to himself that it was for her, to give her some space. Pretending that it wasn’t because he couldn’t look at her. Trying not to think about the fact that she still hadn’t asked about her son.
Tom had showered quickly, dressing in his usual suit, a dark tie, his shoulders unfurling. Had dawdled on the landing for a moment, then, with a small sigh, had pushed open the bedroom door. Checking to make sure she was all right before he went to work, like a good husband. Her back was turned to him, quilt pulled high. He had felt a bubble of relief, then turned, hurrying down the stairs, glancing at his watch. It would be a late one. That was just the way it was with murders.
Tom shifted on the desk. A patch of sunlight had worked its way through dense clouds, was burning through the office window into his back. He concentrated on that, on the sweat that was starting to work its way between his shoulder blades. Tried not to look at Maddie, the tear rolling down her cheek.
He had been on his way into work, driving along the M4, taking it easy, because the snow was still banked up along the carriageway, outer lane unusable to all but the stupid. Thinking about the incident room, the actions to come, flicking through radio stations, changing the channel when a newsreader with a heavy voice coloured the car with orange flames, tearing metal and deep red blood. Was listening to Florence and the Machine when the phone rang.
“You coming in?” Dan’s voice tumbled in a bundle of others.
“Just passing junction 38.”
“Oh right. There we are. Things okay? You know, at home?” His tone was cautious, the kind one uses when someone is sick or bereaved.
Tom knew that Dan was thinking about the long wait in the hospital car park, the two figures crossing towards him, Tom’s arm, awkward across his wife’s shoulders, her body stiff. The seemingly endless drive home, car choked with a toxic silence. That look, the one when Tom was getting out of the car, when he’d ducked his head back in to thank him. The look that said Dan knew more than Tom was prepared to admit.
“Cecilia’s tired. She needs to rest. It’ll be better if I’m not there.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“I was going to stay, but she…Better off in work. Out of the way.”