Authors: Samantha Hayes
Steph’s phone diverts to her message service just as I see it.
The car parked in the bay to the right.
Dark. Square, boxy shape.
The type of car that’s filled my thoughts since the day it happened.
I hang up and slowly tuck my phone back in my pocket, not taking my eyes off it. I cup my hands around the glass, focusing on the vehicle.
It’s a Range Rover. It’s dark green.
Instinctively my eyes are drawn to the number plate, as they always are when I see a vehicle like this, green or not. But the car is parked too close to the front to see.
Tiny samples of paint harvested from the buckle on Jacob’s belt, along with tyre marks on the road, and police forensics were certain that the car that hit Jacob was an 08 or possibly a 58 model Range Rover.
They ran database checks, of course, visiting vehicle owners and inspecting a number of cars that matched their searches. But the exercise turned up nothing, and as time moved on the search for Jacob’s killer dwindled until it sank to the bottom of the pile. The police resources simply weren’t there.
I told the officer in charge that if funds were tight, if they couldn’t provide the manpower to carry out all the vehicle-owner interviews, then I would do it myself. At the time, I refused to give up until the person who had mowed down my son was brought to justice. It became an obsession, and I vowed to scour the whole country if necessary, gathering proof of where each and every driver of these cars had been that day.
But the police refused to release the information, leaving me frustrated and angry. The investigating officer assured me that they’d pursued the most likely vehicles – those within a hundred-mile radius of Oxford – and that there were no more lines of enquiry to be followed.
‘But what if the driver was from Scotland? Or Cornwall? You’re telling me that lack of money has allowed my son’s murderer to walk free?’
‘It’s not exactly like that, Mrs Forrester, though I understand your frustration.’ He went on to tell me about police
statistics, applied algorithms, data collected from different forces over the years, and ANPR reports.
‘With the resources available, we’ve done everything possible. I’m so sorry we haven’t made an arrest yet.’
I have to get into the garage.
I wiggle the handle on one of the up-and-over doors, but it’s locked. I try the other two. Both locked.
At the other end of the long building there is a door, right next to an old crumbling mounting block. When I try the handle, it opens. I stare up at the slate-grey sky, taking a breath. Wondering if I should go in.
It’s cool and smells musty, of rotting grass and oil from the ride-on mower parked near the back wall. A cobweb sticks to my face as I walk through it, drawing closer to the Range Rover at the far end. I notice the paintwork is layered with dust, as if it’s not been used in ages. Dried leaves have blown under the garage door and collected around the wheels.
The depth of the garage is only just enough for the big four-wheel drive to fit in, with just a couple of inches between the front bumper and the up-and-over door. The back end gives me a slightly better view of the number plate, even though it’s covered in dried mud.
The letters and numbers stand out on the orange-yellow background. The first four are easily readable – FE08 – though I can’t see the final three.
My mouth goes dry. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just one of those rotten coincidences in life that happen for no good reason. Despite its age, the car looks
rarely used, making it unlikely to have been the one that struck Jacob. It probably belongs to Phil and sits in the garage gathering dust.
But I can’t help wondering if it was included in the police list. And I also can’t help wondering if any officers actually paid a visit to find out where the car and its owner were on the day my son died.
I peer inside. There’s nothing much to see. Tan leather seats with a tartan wool rug left in the back, a bottle of water discarded on the floor. In the central console, there’s a pair of dark sunglasses and some receipts. I’m just able to make out that one of them is for diesel – nearly a hundred pounds’ worth. A vehicle like this isn’t cheap to run.
For my own peace of mind, I have to see the front of the car, especially the left wing panel. The forensics team explained how, from Jacob’s injuries and the tyre marks left on the road and verge, they were able to conclude that was the part that most likely hit him.
I can’t stand to think that this is the actual car. That it loomed big and loud and gave my son no chance of survival or escape. The police said the driver was speeding. Deep down, I know it’s unlikely that this is the vehicle, just as all the other dark green Range Rovers I’ve spotted over the years weren’t the one either. But it still doesn’t stop me from wanting to smash it up. From taking a sledgehammer and bringing it down over and over again on the bonnet.
I squeeze between the back of the tailgate and the stone wall of the garage, my legs rubbing along the bumper
panel. Once I’m round, there’s a little more room, allowing me to get down to the front, though not without tripping on a few garden tools. Jacob wouldn’t have stood a chance.
It’s just as I spot the grooves of damaged paintwork – the white dents obvious against the dark green – that I hear a woman’s voice.
I can’t take my eyes off the shape in the metal. Is it an imprint of my son?
‘Gina,’ Susan says, standing the other side of the Range Rover. ‘Are you looking for something?’
Her face is paler than I remember, her eyes more staring.
‘I . . . no. I’m really sorry.’ I swallow. ‘I must seem very nosy, but I thought I heard a kitten meowing. Several kittens, actually. I thought they might be trapped. I was out for a walk.’ I’m shaking.
She stares at me. Blank-faced.
‘Jane said you’d been in reception.’
What else did Jane say? I wonder. Like Hannah, I suddenly want to go home. Something’s not right. Yet there’s no way I’m leaving without knowing more.
‘I can’t hear them now, though,’ I say, trying to add in a little laugh. ‘Do you have farm cats around here? Perhaps their mother was killed. Poor little mites.’ I continue the act, praying Susan won’t notice my nerves. I bend down, peering under the car. ‘I swear the sound was coming from around here.’
‘You may well be right,’ she replies, seeming more
relaxed now. ‘Phil’s car doesn’t get used often.’ She pats the wing, and it makes a hollow, metallic sound. ‘Maybe they’re under the bonnet.’
‘I think they’ve gone now,’ I say quietly, even though we both know kittens don’t disappear into thin air. ‘I’d better be getting back to the room. Hannah will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
‘Any plans for later?’ Susan asks, once I’ve squeezed out from behind the car.
‘A couple of things,’ I say, being vague on purpose.
We walk out into the courtyard and she shows me to the rear entrance of the hotel. ‘Have a good afternoon, then. Whatever you do.’ She holds open the door, tracking me as I go past.
I barely breathe until I get up to the room, fighting back the tears. Hannah is packing up her stuff. I drop down on my bed, wondering what it all means – the letter from Adrian, no trace of Rick paying for the hotel, and a dented car identical to the one that is supposed to have killed my son parked in Susan’s garage. I bury my face in the pillow, sobbing. It all comes out – the biggest meltdown I’ve had in a long time.
Hannah sits down next to me, stroking my back. ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ she says. ‘We’ll go home now. I’ll get everything in the car.’
I sit up suddenly, my eyes incredulous and wide. ‘No, Hannah,’ I say, wiping my hand across my nose. ‘There’s no
way
we’re going home yet.’
I knock on the door of the flat with Cooper standing by my side, immediately wishing I hadn’t. I don’t know if it’s for company, for comfort or for something else that I need to see him. My heart thumps. All I know is that I had to get out of our room.
I tap again, praying it’s him who answers. I don’t know what I’ll say if Susan comes to the door.
‘Hi.’ He looks me up and down – a gentle appraisal – but I still see the hurt in his eyes. ‘Come in.’ He stands back, holding the door wide.
‘Thank you.’ He gives Cooper a quick pat. I hesitate. ‘Are you alone?’
He nods. ‘Have a seat.’
Cooper drops to the floor at my feet with a groan, fed up that he’s not getting a walk.
We’re silent for a few moments, neither one knowing what the other is going to say. Him hoping I’ll explain everything; me wishing he could make everything go away.
I know neither is going to happen, so I sit on the edge of the sofa, fiddling with my nails.
‘Do you want a drink? Some water?’
I shake my head.
‘Did you want to talk?’
I shrug, feeling like a pouty eight-year-old.
‘We’ll work things out.’
‘No, Tom,’ I say. ‘You don’t understand. We can’t.’
‘Let’s just talk then. About whatever you like.’
‘My mum’s really upset,’ I say. ‘It’s been a tough few months for her.’
‘And my mum told me about your dad.’ He takes a moment to think, rubbing his chin and looking pained. ‘Hannah, it sounds as though your dad going missing could be the reason why you broke up with me. If only you’d confided in me, I could have supported you.’
‘It wasn’t because of that,’ I say, scowling. ‘Dad went missing the week
after
we broke up.’
‘You’ve had so much to deal with, Han. I’ll help you get through it.’
He just doesn’t get it. I don’t know how to make him understand that it’s not about us any more.
‘Mum said she saw a car . . .’ I think of her lying on the bed, sobbing out something barely intelligible. At first I thought she was just a bit upset, the usual hysteria triggered by something unrelated. But then she told me what she’d seen. ‘She saw it in your garage.’
Tom pulls a puzzled face, as if it’s no big deal. ‘Yeah,
like that’s where cars usually are.’ His eyes narrow above his bemused smile.
‘She said it had a dent.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ he replies, thinking briefly. ‘Do you mean Dad’s Range Rover?’
I nod. Watching him.
‘He refuses to drive it these days.’ Tom’s face relaxes as if none of this is a big deal.
‘Why? Why won’t he drive it?’ The urge to grab his hands, to shake the answers from him, is huge.
He pulls a bemused face. ‘I guess it’s because he has a company car now. He bought the Range Rover a few years ago on a whim. Mum thought it was an indulgence.’ Tom laughs. ‘He was probably going for a lord-of-the-manor image, you know?’
But I don’t know. My mind races. ‘Tom, why won’t he drive it?’
He becomes serious. ‘I don’t know, Hannah. I really don’t. Maybe the novelty wore off?’ He tries to put his arm round me, but I pull away. ‘Mum hates it too. She said it’s too big for her. Between you and me, she’s not a great driver. And she can’t park to save her life.’ He laughs again, trying to lighten my mood.
My stomach cramps, making me lean forward. I lower my face.
Tom smothers my balled-up fists within his. I let him. ‘What’s with the inquisition, anyway?’ he asks. ‘I’m worried about you, Hannah.’
From this distance I catch the scent of his freshly washed
hair. The warmth of his body wraps around me, making me want to fall into his arms. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say in a moment of rationality. I hadn’t realised how contagious Mum’s anxiety has become. ‘It’s just that Jacob was hit by a dark green Range Rover. You have to understand that whenever we see a car with the same . . . well, it’s a trigger for all kinds of feelings.’ I’m suddenly not feeling well again.
‘Oh Hannah . . .’ Tom says, pulling me close. I allow him this.
For a while we don’t speak. I listen to the rhythm of his breathing. Slow and steady. Mine is the opposite, though it begins to slow, begins to fall into line. I hate myself for the feelings he’s stirring.
I break the silence. ‘Mum’s very sensitive still. If they’d caught the driver back then, I think it would have helped her come to terms with it.’
I don’t tell him that just ten minutes ago she wanted to call the police, that I managed to convince her not to. She’s done this so many times over the years, but she always gets knocked back, hurt even more. PC Lane is very understanding, but is well aware that Mum’s prone to overreacting. I wanted to spare her the pain.
‘How do they know what kind of car it was?’ Deep inside Tom’s eyes, I see things churning around in his mind. Just as they are in mine.
‘They tested paint samples. And there were tyre tread marks, too. It was something from nothing, but forensics figured it all out.’
I remember the day they told us about the specifics of
the car. It was a spotlight shone on Jacob’s last moments, a glimpse into what he saw before he died: a huge four-wheel drive bearing down on top of him.
‘But how many green Range Rovers must there be in the world, Han? Thousands and thousands.’
‘We’re not talking about the world, though. Only this country. Possibly just the county. And, yes, there are loads of cars like your dad’s.’ I look directly at him. ‘But not so many with dents in the front left panel and an 08 registration plate.’
Tom visibly pales.
‘My dad didn’t kill your brother.’ His response is swift and defensive. ‘Check the dates. I doubt he was even in the country when it happened.’
He stands up and goes to the window.
I clench my fists, mentally kicking myself. I shouldn’t have come. If it hadn’t been for Mum’s outburst – one minute acting hysterical, the next trying to call the police – I’d have let it drop.
Tom paces about, ruffling his hair.
‘We’ll go and look at the car if it helps. And I’ll phone Dad and ask him where he was on that day. Just give me the date.’ He comes up to me, crouches down. ‘He may not remember right off, but he’ll be able to check back in his diary.’
He’s desperate to make everything OK, desperate to believe that my dad going missing or even Jacob’s death are the reasons why I broke up with him, that once this is cleared up we’ll be fine again.