The conversation took a surreal turn as Jennifer watched Joanna casually discuss her daughter’s death while mopping the floor. She wanted to throw the mop to the other side of the room, and ask her to at least have the decency to grant her daughter her full attention. She was beginning to experience the frustration and disbelief that Nick felt.

  ‘What do you mean, she already knows? Has she said anything to you?’

  Joanna dipped the mop into the dented metal bucket and pumped the handle up and down. ‘No. And believe me, I’ve tried to get her to open up. But I can tell. Twins pick up on things.’

  Jennifer grasped the handle, temporarily gaining Joanna’s attention.

  ‘I may have . . . an insight, but I don’t class myself as a medium. Perhaps I can speak to Olivia alone. I might be able to help her come to term with things, at least until the child psychiatrist gets here.’

  Joanna smiled, but her eyes were icy cold. ‘I’d like that. But under no circumstances is a psychiatrist coming into my home.’

  Jennifer dropped her hands, splaying them palms upwards. ‘But they only want to help . . .’

  ‘We’ve given the police free rein on our farm. But just this once, I’m putting my foot down. I’m happy for you to speak to Olivia, but I’m not having any counsellors involved. If you have a problem with that, you can call social services.’

  ‘God, Joanna, I don’t have a problem. I’m just surprised, that’s all.’

  Joanna smiled, calmness restored. ‘That’s okay, then. I think she’s just gone upstairs, if you’d like to speak to her now. Nick’s in the bath, so you won’t be disturbed.’

  Jennifer did not need to be asked twice. She gripped the thick wooden banister as she climbed the stairs. The bulb on the landing had blown, and grim shadows filled the empty space. The need for cleanliness and order began to rise, and she could not contemplate spending a night in the unwelcoming farmhouse, let alone live there. Somewhere in the depths of her senses Jennifer could feel ghosts of the past brushing against her skin, their icy whispers raising goosebumps on her flesh. A cold, sickening sensation arose as each step brought Jennifer further up into the gloom. Whatever she had encountered previously in the living room hung like a ghostly fog upstairs. Her eyes crept to the damp speckled ceiling, and she tightened her grip on the banister. She couldn’t help but wonder what had possessed the family to leave their luxurious townhouse and set up home in such a desolate, unwelcoming abode. The air was thick with moisture, and as she ascended a humming noise played an eerie tune. Jennifer’s heart froze as she reached the landing and saw a pallid child in a white linen dress, facing an open bedroom door. A whisper rose in Jennifer’s throat.

  ‘Abigail? . . . Is that you?’

  The child turned, her blonde hair no longer shadowing her face. She was wearing glasses. It was Olivia, who had clearly changed out of her ketchup-stained clothes. Jennifer exhaled a little sigh of relief as she approached her.

  Soundlessly, Olivia raised her hand and pointed into the bedroom. The source of the humming noise was slowly dying away.

  Jennifer took a step towards it, her body tensing as she wondered what she would find. She was reassured by sounds of splashing rising from the bathroom end of the corridor. At least for now, Nick was preoccupied.

  Olivia took Jennifer’s hand as she entered the room. Light filtered in from the generous sash window, bouncing onto the wooden floor. The low hum subsided, and the spinning wheel which had produced it rattled onto its side. Olivia’s dolls and teddies made up an audience, surrounding it in a perfect circle.

  ‘Did you do this?’ Jennifer asked.

  Olivia shook her head.

  ‘Do you know who did?’

  Olivia paused, before shaking her head again.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Jennifer said. ‘Do you want to help me put them back?’

  Olivia toed the floor with her shoe before nodding.

  Jennifer wondered if Joanna’s reluctance to call in a psychiatrist was more to do with her own issues than her daughter’s. The child needed help, and further recommendations would be made.

  ‘Olivia, do you remember when we went to see Toby, and we spoke about Abigail?’

  Olivia looked down at her hands, small and delicate as they fingered the ear of a stuffed rabbit. She nodded in response, pursing her lips.

  ‘Well . . . I’d like to speak to her again. Do you think you could do that for me?’

  Silence. Olivia’s head dipped as she pulled the stuffed toy close to her chest.

  Jennifer felt a pang of guilt as she awaited a response. She should have had an appropriate adult present. But Abigail’s life was at stake, and it wasn’t as if Jennifer was formally questioning her. One more try, Jennifer thought. One more try and I’ll let it go.

  ‘Can you remember anything about the last time she spoke? . . . Olivia?’

  Suddenly a voice erupted, tearful and anxious. ‘I’m Abigail. I’m alone in the dark. Please, can’t you find me?’

  Jennifer’s heart pounded as she measured her words. ‘We will find you, sweetheart. I need you to describe where you are. What does it feel like?’

  ‘Dirt. I can feel dirt between my fingers. It’s wet. I . . . I want to come home.’

  Jennifer touched Olivia’s hands. They were cold to the touch, and trembled in her grip. ‘We’re looking for you. How did you get there?’

  The words were punctuated by heart rendering sobs. ‘They left me here . . . I don’t like it. I’m scared.’

  Tears slid down Jennifer’s jawbone, dappling her shirt collar. Abigail’s fear had infiltrated her senses, and she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. Time was running out, and she was no further on.

  ‘Who, Abigail? Who left you?’ Jennifer whispered.

  Olivia jumped as the bathroom door slammed in the hall, and her glazed eyes became sharply focused as a look of terror streaked across her face.

  Hearing her father’s footsteps, Olivia jumped from the bed and over to the far side of the room. Raising her finger to her lips, she climbed into the wardrobe, pulling the doors shut.

  ‘Hide,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Hide, or Daddy will be cross.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A gentle morning fog skimmed the banks of the Blakewater river, rising like steam over the divers who had been there since sunrise. Jennifer picked her way across the dewy bank. It felt odd having the soles of her feet firmly on the ground. Downsizing by five inches to squeeze into wellington boots unsettled her, and she craned her neck to look up at Sergeant Mike Stobart as he directed his team of divers. Jennifer had come to know Mike well over the years. He had begun his career at the age of eighteen, working in various roles until he found his place as the head of the diving team. It was a position he had been in for over ten years, and he was not shy when it came to sharing his experiences. He was a competent officer; Jennifer could relax knowing he was overseeing the search. There were five other divers on the bank, and it was obvious by their determined expressions that they had been fully briefed on the situation.

  ‘Mike,’ Jennifer said, offering a nod of respect.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t me old mucker. How the heck are you?’ Mike said, throwing an arm around her shoulder in a half embrace.

  Jennifer laughed, cutting her joviality short as she took in the scene. It felt wrong somehow, laughing on such a sombre occasion. She was painfully aware that at any second a signal could be raised, and Abigail could be found. She was a professional, and she had faced some horrific things in her career, but it didn’t make it any easier. ‘I’d be a lot better if we could find Abigail,’ she said. ‘I take it you’ve not found anything?’

  Mike gave her a wilting look and Jennifer blushed. ‘Sorry. Stupid question.’

  He smiled. It was a patient smile; the kind you would give one of your kids. He had a large family, with five children under ten. Patience was something he had cultivated over the years. ‘The water’s murky, although thankfully the last few days have been cool, and the river’s not moving very fast.’

  The divers were in full dry suits with face masks. These were a given when searching the river Blakewater, due to the risk of pollution and the presence of rats. Jennifer shuddered at the thought of groping her way through its hidden depths. She was far too claustrophobic to submerge herself in the murky waters.

  She watched as one of the divers disappeared into the depths of the river, leaving an eruption of bubbles on the surface. His rope attachment resembled a yellow umbilical cord, his lifeline to his colleagues on the surface. Jennifer stared, fascinated, as the officers on the ground communicated with him through their two-way equipment. She did not envy his task. Most of the team were mature in service and had children of their own, and a solemn atmosphere fell as they spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘Wouldn’t the body be floating on the top?’ Jennifer said, never afraid to ask questions.

  Mike shook his head. ‘Bodies don’t tend to float until after a few days, when the gases build up. The warmer the weather, the quicker the process.’

  More bubbles broke the surface of the water as the diver arced across the river, his colleagues releasing another metre of rope as each section was searched. Most of their work was nil visibility underwater. Submerged in darkness and chilled to the bone, they groped their way through the rising silt, weeds and debris, never knowing what was going to appear before them. So far the process had turned up some car tyres, an old safe, bottles and other unwanted souvenirs.

  It had been Jennifer’s job to assimilate a list of new questions to put to the family. A full background of the incident had been requested by the diving team: exactly where Abigail was last seen, and by whom. What sort of mood was she in? What she was like around water, was she foolhardy or cautious? Could she swim, and if so, what was her level of capability? What was the weather that day? What she had been wearing? Was her hair tied up or down? On and on the questions went, and given the lack of cooperation from her parents, Fiona had answered the bulk of them. Although there was nothing to suggest that Abigail had gone as far as the river, drowning could not be ruled out. The search was centred around the most likely point of access from the house to the river bed. Abigail and Olivia had walked the crooked path with their father a couple of times in the past. Neither of them were confident swimmers, and would not have got into the water on their own. Jennifer discussed what Abigail had been wearing last. It was not for descriptive purposes. Her clothing could have been caught in the riverbank. Wellington boots could be submerged with water and act as weights unless she could wriggle free. Dungaree straps could get stuck in low-lying branches and foliage. The thought of Abigail floating in a watery grave sent a sick feeling through Jennifer, but she discussed it all with her usual professionalism. She never met Abigail, but felt like she knew the little girl, because Olivia was worming her way into her heart.

  * * *

  Mike left to speak with one of his divers and re-joined Jennifer at the bank.

  ‘That’s Ian,’ Mike said, making scant effort to hide his grin as he buried his hands into the pockets of his police jacket. ‘He made a bit of a schoolboy error when we recovered that suicide victim last week.’ He gave a little chortle. ‘I’ve told him a hundred times. Never grab a body face-on when asking to be pulled in. It wraps itself around you, and that’s when you drop it. Which is exactly what Ian did. We had to send another diver in to start the search all over again.’

  Jennifer shuddered as she imagined the weightless body enveloping her, its cold bloated face looming in on hers. Black humour was a coping mechanism used by the police to deal with such incidents. Nobody cared more about their victims than they did, but to an outsider listening in, his laughter would have been difficult to understand.

  Jennifer stared, mesmerised by the water. ‘I don’t know how you do it. It’s not my cuppa tea.’

  Mike, who was enjoying her discomfort, carried on. ‘You have to be careful when you grab things like a trainer, because quite often there’s a foot attached. And then there’s the thermoclines. They take a lot of young lives in the summer.’

  ‘Therma what?’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Thermoclines. Different levels of water as you descend. One minute you’re having a nice lukewarm dip, and the next you come into a pocket of freezing cold water. It can literally shock the breath out of your lungs.’

  ‘From what the family have said, I don’t think Abigail would have entered the water voluntarily.’

  Mike’s chest heaved in a thick heavy sigh. ‘No. Neither do I.’

  Jennifer wondered if it would be better for Abigail to be found, just to put an end to the misery. Olivia’s words replayed in her mind, like an earworm that refused to go away. ‘Dirt. I can feel dirt between my fingers. I want to come home.’ She was lost in a pit of darkness, lying in a bed of soil. Was she naked and dumped in a shallow grave? Or was the dirt in the depths of the river bed? The Blakewater river had claimed many lives over the years; tormented souls searching for peace. Or maybe . . . just maybe she was alive. But how? Where? Jennifer had tried reaching out, but there was nothing but a void. She cursed the powers that chose the worst possible time to desert her. Abigail needed her, and all she was doing was playing referee between the family and trying to coax whispers from a traumatised child. Hide, or Daddy will be cross. The urgency of Olivia’s words had startled her. She was beginning to regain her speech, and Jennifer wished she could whisk her away and talk to her alone. She knew from the beginning there was something special about the little girl. A vibrational energy afforded only to children with certain abilities. Yet Olivia seemed unaffected by the spirits that roamed the house. Was her energy tuned in to that of her sister’s, like an old transistor radio that could only pick up one channel? And if so, was Jennifer’s slow, gentle encouragement the right way to get her to open up? A midge landed on Jennifer’s neck, its bite bringing her sharply back to reality. Mike had walked up the bank to talk to his diver, and she hadn’t even noticed. She bade him goodbye. There was no point in staring mournfully into the water when there was so much to be done. As she trudged back up the path, Abigail’s words repeated in her thoughts. She walked away from the cold unforgiving river, and was just out of earshot as the diver’s hand speared the water, beckoning his colleagues to his find.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Diary Entry

  It’s been two days now and the police are still here. The longer they stay, the tighter my old, destructive emotions wrap themselves around me. But there’s no getting away from it. The press appeal has placed Abigail’s name on everybody’s lips. I can’t walk down the street without hearing about it, and if I see one more yellow ribbon tied to a lamp post I will scream.

  I was upstairs last night, when Olivia’s grandparents called. Good old Bob and Wendy, with their rosary beads and whispered prayers. Downstairs, they mumbled their usual platitudes about Abigail, and how the fires of Hell awaited whoever was responsible for her disappearance. I came out of the bathroom to find Olivia, pale-faced and ashen, taking it all in. Not once had they mentioned her, or asked how she was feeling. It was as if she had become the house ghost, and I thought, just for a second, that perhaps it would be better if she was. I stood behind her at the top of the stairs, and had this incredible urge to shout Boo! in her ear. What a hoot that would have been! Instead, I uttered some comforting words, and asked if she wanted to join me downstairs. I rested my palm on her back, and for a few delicious seconds I felt the urge to push. But Olivia stepped forward and the moment was lost.

  My childhood is as much a part of my present as it was my past. I have tried to leave it all behind, to be normal; but doing so has resulted in my mother’s prophecy coming true. She was right. I am Jekyll and Hyde. I wonder whether, if she had taken a little more notice, I would be any different now. Mother didn’t notice my disappearances when I was Olivia’s age; she just presumed I was out playing with the other children. It was a close-knit community. Someone should have known if there was a wolf in the village, shouldn’t they? Only the wolf wasn’t in the village. He was living in our home.

  Slowly he groomed me, and made me grateful to have him as my first and only friend. We even had our own private jokes; rude names for Mother’s cats, that we used when she wasn’t listening. For the first time in my life, I woke up with a smile on my face. Father had never paid much attention to me before, but now we were the very best of friends. And the most exciting thing of all was that I was going to be a model. At first, I didn’t believe it either. But grown-ups didn’t lie. He was a good man, because Mummy told me so. He was my friend.

  At first, they were simple photo shoots: smile for the camera, cross your hands on your lap, make it natural. It was the usual rubbish taken by amateurs. He said that he would make a portfolio, get me some modelling work. I was nine, not old enough to understand that grown-ups didn’t always tell the truth. I imagined my face on the cover of the fashion magazines that Mother used to read. He said most famous models started off when they were children. But it had to be our little secret. Lots of people would be jealous, and we weren’t to tell a soul until the contracts were signed. Then I would be rich, and everybody would want to be my friend.

  Sometimes he would catch my eye and wink, and I would wear my secret smile. He even sorted out the bullies so they would not bother me again.

  We developed a routine. Every Sunday, I attended my photo session. The studio was heated by a two-bar electric fire, and kept under lock and key. Anyone that dared interrupt his session by knocking would bear the brunt of a temper that could change in a millisecond. One Sunday he said his contacts had come back to him. They wanted something different, something to make us stand out above the rest. He told me how grown up I looked and gave me some clothes to wear. It didn’t matter if the trousers were too small. Tight-fitting clothes were all the fashion, he said. I changed in the studio, and he returned when I was done. He didn’t mind when my rolls of fat peeped out from under my vest. When the magazine signed me, I would go up to London, and wear proper clothes that fit. For the first time in my life I felt valued. I could not have been happier. Little did I know what was ahead.