‘Where are my manners?’ Joanna said. ‘Please come inside.’

  Jennifer’s role was to act as a go between, deciphering the police jargon and updating the family on the case. But more importantly, she was also there to observe and gather information, whatever it may turn out to be. She closed the door behind her, pushing it against the wind squealing through the cracks. It was thick and heavy, and as the hinges groaned shut there was a sense of finality, as if she had committed herself to this family. This house. She wondered if her colleagues had felt it too.

  Joanna walked briskly down the hall. The oil burners on the small oval table failed dismally to mask the smell of damp plasterboard. Jennifer blinked to adjust her eyes after walking in from the light, feeling like she had entered a long narrow cave. Her sixth sense spiked as she entered the bowels of the house, and other-world whispers streamed into her consciousness.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive the state we’re in,’ Joanna said, bringing her back to reality.

  Jennifer was about to reply that it was only natural her emotions would be all over the place, when she realised Joanna was talking about the decor, and not her missing child.

  Joanna grasped the brass door handle. ‘I’ll take you to my husband. I believe you’ve met.’

  Jennifer paused as a floorboard creaked overhead. ‘I’d really like to speak to Olivia first, if I could.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Joanna said. ‘Olivia hasn’t spoken a word since her sister’s disappearance.’

  ‘But . . .’ Jennifer said, taking a step back as she caught a glimpse of the little girl on the landing. ‘I’d like to see her, just the same.’

  ‘All in good time,’ Joanna said, leaning against the door and pushing it open. Jennifer masked her expression of disbelief as she entered the spacious kitchen. It was bigger than her hall, kitchen and living room put together. The room was milling with people, huddled together in small groups. It could have passed as a social gathering, if it were not for the attire of muddy boots, duffle coats and wax jackets. Her eyes danced over each group, picking out faces as they glanced in her direction. She immediately recognised Karen Corbett – the latest addition to Nick Duncan’s team at Lexton CID, having recently come through her probation.

  Jennifer felt a pair of eyes bore into her, and caught the gaze of a bearded man standing on his own in the corner. The tallest person in the room, he was middle-aged, with a weathered face which spoke of the outdoors. Throwing the remnants of his tea into the sink, he pulled up the furred hood of his parka and made towards the door. Joanna gave a blanket introduction to the rest of the mumbling herds of people as ‘family and friends’, as they knocked back their dregs of tea, ready to recommence searching the lands.

  ‘Who was that man in the parka?’ Jennifer said, unable to shake off his mistrustful stare. She had recognised him from somewhere, and hoped it was from a social setting, rather than one of her many arrests.

  ‘That’s Charles Radcliffe. Radcliffe, for short. He’s been helping out on the farm,’ Joanna said. She squeezed past the people to a large oak table, where her husband was sitting.

  Nick was a complete contrast to his wife. He sat with his head lowered, threading his fingers through his greying hair. He had barely noticed Jennifer enter the room, he was so engrossed in his misery.

  Joanna gently called her husband’s name, and he snapped his head up in response. His chair scraped against the black stone tiles as he pushed it back, almost knocking it over in his haste to extend a clammy hand and squeeze Jennifer’s fingers in a firm grip.

  ‘DC Knight. Have you any news?’

  Jennifer looked into his puffy red-rimmed eyes, wishing she had something positive to give him. ‘Call me Jennifer, please. As soon as I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Nick’s gaze dropped to the floor, his eyebrows dragging his furrowed brow. This was the response Jennifer had expected; a man barely able to keep it together. Her eyes flicked to Joanna, who was humming to herself as she lifted a whistling kettle from the Aga. Something wasn’t right about this scene. The kitchen window abruptly burst open, and a cold breeze rode the goosebumps rising on her flesh. The sudden activity reinforced the urgency of her investigations. Abigail was out there somewhere, lost and scared in the wilderness. That’s if she was still alive. At just nine years old, she was blinded by bad vision, with no witnesses to her disappearance. Yet missing children were not an uncommon occurrence in the UK. The figures from morning briefing returned to haunt her, and the fact that over 140,000 children go missing in the United Kingdom each year. She recalled Olivia’s face, silent and forlorn as she stood at the rotting timber window frame – waiting for her twin. Jennifer made a silent promise. One way or another, she would bring Abigail home.

  Chapter Three

  Diary Entry

  I wanted to hurt myself today. To slice through my skin and watch the life flow out of me in a red river of madness. It’s my madness. I know that. It’s why my mother nicknamed me Jekyll and Hyde. One moment I would be calm, serene, a perfect child. Then without any warning I was a typhoon, ripping through the room, upsetting anyone in my path. She didn’t understand. And those that did said nothing.

  I’m much better at hiding my feelings now. Diaries are therapeutic, a way of bleeding all the poison and frustrations onto the page. What was it the counsellors said? Imagine filling a balloon with all your torment, and watch as it floats up into the sky. But that never worked for me. The only pressure valve to my emotional turbulence was inflicting physical pain. It’s not my fault. Besides, I always begin with myself. My body bears the scars to prove it. But some days the slash of a razor or burn from a flame just isn’t enough. I try not to allow it to take over, but it builds like a powerful wave. I feel myself being submerged in its darkness, gasping for breath as it consumes me. On those days I can barely recollect what happens.

  Being Jekyll and Hyde isn’t such a terrible thing. Because if I have two separate identities, then the bad thing happened to my alter ego, not me, and I don’t have to take responsibility for what follows. Lately I’ve been finding it harder to cope. The masses of people coming to the house make me feel dizzy and confused. Oh Diary, I wish you were a real person. Someone I could turn to who would understand without judgement. What made me was an evil so great that I had no choice but to embrace it. There is no redemption for me. And making it my ally has given me the strength I need to survive. Sometimes, when the anger is rising, I fantasise about grasping a poker, white-hot from the fire. I imagine the smell of my burning flesh filling my nostrils as the pain seeps through to every nerve ending. I envision myself striking it down on the people who betrayed me. On those occasions, the pain is good. The strength, the control. But I’m not ready to talk about the past yet. It’s like vomiting in your own mouth; tasting the bile that partially digested long ago.

  A detective has come to the farm. She is strong and determined. She wants to integrate herself into our lives, like a beautiful dark spider weaving a sugared web. You can talk to me, tell me how you feel. Her eyes are hypnotic, and her words lure you in. But I know what she is and I won’t allow her a viewing into my soul. I’ve become an expert at allowing my eyes to glaze over in a disinterested way. Sometimes I blurt out a giggle when nobody is looking – seeing them all running around, crying, shouting, a disgusting outpour of human emotions. I have all the power. Because I know things that nobody else knows. I feel the hysteria bubble up inside me, and I stifle the giggles, camouflaging my response as shock or despair. Am I inhuman, to be without compassion? Devoid of empathy? There was little compassion or sorrow for me. I think of Abigail. So beautiful, and so full of life. Her long flowing white-blonde hair, her loud giggles and whoops as she ran through the house, filling the empty spaces with laughter. But then I think of my childhood. And I wonder, is it fair to choose Abigail’s life over mine? I remember my pact and know I have no choice.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Are you a tea or coffee drinker?’ Joanna smiled. ‘I’ve got some nice pastries from the bakery this morning, I drove into Haven especially. Would you like one?’

  ‘Just coffee, thanks,’ Jennifer said, picking a floppy-eared toy rabbit up off the floor and placing it on the table. She returned her gaze to Nick, watching his expression of disbelief as he stared at his wife.

  A jagged vein at the side of his forehead began to pulsate as he spoke in cold, hurt tones. ‘Make the coffee if that’s what you want. We’re going into the living room.’

  ‘Of course, darling, you and your police talk. I’m sure it’s all above my head anyway.’ A dainty laugh passed her lips as she slid out the box of sugar lumps from the cupboard.

  ‘Come with me,’ Nick said, taking Jennifer by the elbow, not quite forcefully, but hard enough to take control. He steered her out into the hall, guiding her down the corridor into a door on the right.

  Each room seemed more oppressive than the last, and she fought to acclimatise herself to the leaden atmosphere. The ceiling creaked overhead, driving a shiver up Jennifer’s spine. In Haven, old houses didn’t settle. They carried a life of their own, and Blackwater farm was no exception. This was a house that would never be a home. The best they could hope for would be to co-exist with the ghosts of the past.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Nick said, pointing to an old leather chair. Most of the furniture seemed to have woodworm. A plasma television flashed with the sound turned down, ill suited with the other furnishings.

  Jennifer stood, rooted to the spot. She didn’t appreciate being manhandled, and was not about to allow him to take his frustrations out on her.

  ‘With all due respect, Sergeant, I’ll sit when you do.’

  Nick rubbed his hand across his stubble as he breathed a terse sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t handle Joanna right now. Our daughter’s missing and she’s making tea. Fucking tea!’ With one swift kick he sent a spindly coffee table skidding across the threadbare carpet.

  Jennifer took two steps forward and grasped his forearm. His sinews were tense in her grip. ‘We’ll find your daughter. But you’ve got to stay focused and calm the hell down.’

  Nick broke away and turned to face the window. ‘I just feel so helpless. I need to be out there, looking for Abigail.’

  Jennifer understood his frustration, but to her mind, answers could be nearer than they imagined.

  ‘I was wondering if I could spend some time with Olivia. I know she’s not talking, but she might open up to a stranger . . . Nick?’

  But Nick wasn’t listening. Evening was drawing in, bringing with it the prospect of his little girl being alone in the dark for the very first time.

  Jennifer followed Nick’s gaze to the bleak fields, and to the left, the array of outbuildings, which had been searched more times than they needed to be. Police did not believe Abigail was in the immediate vicinity, and the search area had widened considerably. Jennifer tried to pick up clues from the energies in the house, but the air was too charged, filled with vibrations of anger and despair. She softened her voice. ‘I understand your devastation, I really do. My nephew went missing last year and I nearly went mad with worry. Why don’t we sit down and discuss things? Maybe a fresh perspective will help?’

  Nick faced her, the anger withdrawn from his eyes for now. ‘Your nephew . . .’ he said, swallowing to ease the croak in his voice. ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘Yes, alive and well,’ Jennifer said, leading Nick to an old wingback leather chair.

  ‘Good. And please, call me Nick.’ He hitched up his jeans as he took a seat.

  Jennifer nodded, inwardly groaning as Joanna entered the room with a tray. Just when I’m making progress, she thought, hoping she would hurry up and leave. Jennifer placed the coffee table on its feet and Joanna put the tray on top, still wearing her plastic smile.

  ‘Here you go. Help yourself to sugar and cream. Oh, and I’ve put some croissants on the side just in case you change your mind.’

  Jennifer smiled a thank you, afraid her words may spark off another bout of anger from Nick. Throughout her career she had to be the bearer of bad news. People would curl up in a ball and wail, would want to attack her, or would just push her out of the door rather than face the reality that their loved one had died. Although no body had not been found, the disappearance of a young child was every parent’s nightmare. But Joanna’s behaviour really was bizarre. Jennifer felt a distinct air of unease as the woman robotically cocked her head to one side and pointed at the television. ‘Oh look, there I am.’

  Jennifer gasped as an image of Joanna flickered up on the screen. She was flanked by a couple of television presenters from a TV studio in Lexton, wearing sympathetic smiles as they introduced her to the audience. It was the local show where Joanna sometimes made a guest appearance, but Jennifer never expected to see her on screen today.

  Nick, who had been staring coldly ahead, snapped up the remote control. ‘What the hell?’ he said, jabbing the button as he turned up the volume. It was a pre-recorded interview from that day. A few hours after Abigail went missing. ‘What have you done?’ he whispered, as he watched his wife smiling at the camera. Her perfect white teeth, her beautifully applied make-up, even her blonde hair was styled with precision. She wore a fuchsia skirt and jacket, her legs neatly crossed as she clutched the ears of the toy bunny rabbit on her lap.

  Jennifer peered at the screen, recognising it as the same toy she had picked up from the floor minutes earlier. She shook away the uneasy thought that it was being used as a prop, and strained to listen to the interview.

  ‘Abigail has been missing for hours now,’ Joanna said, sadly. ‘We’d just like her to come home. If anyone knows of her whereabouts, we’d like them to get in touch.’

  The presenter nodded sympathetically. ‘You mention someone knowing about her disappearance. You don’t think she could have run away?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Joanna smiled. ‘Abigail would never leave her twin sister. They were two peas in a pod.’

  She’s described them in past tense, Jennifer thought.

  The dark-haired interviewer masked her expression, but Jennifer could see the surprise behind her eyes. ‘So how do you feel about your daughter’s disappearance?’ she asked, seizing the moment.

  Joanna pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed the corner of her eye, which was completely dry. ‘We just want our little girl to come home. I have a Facebook group, by the way, for anyone that has information, and they can tweet with the hashtag “Find Abigail”. I’ve had some wonderful messages of support.’

  Jennifer sighed. Joanna must have sneaked out to Lexton after Sue had left. She was free to go where she wanted, as she wasn’t a suspect. But Joanna going against everything the police had asked of her could only hinder the investigation. Jennifer gritted her teeth, willing the show to end. But the interviewers weren’t going to let Joanna off the hook that easily. Jennifer stifled a groan as they continued with their questioning.

  ‘Have the police found any leads with regards to her disappearance?’

  Joanna uncrossed her legs and looked directly at the cameras. ‘Yes. They found her glasses on a track outside our home. She can’t see very well without them.’

  Jennifer drew her attention away from the screen and back to Nick. His face was red with fury, fists clenched, as his frustrations reached boiling point. ‘What have you done?’ he shouted, turning to face Joanna, spitting the words backed up in his throat.

  It was bad enough that Joanna had gone against their wishes and appeared on TV, but now she had leaked vital information to the press. Jennifer stepped between them, shielding the woman from her furious husband. ‘Sit down, Nick, this isn’t going to solve anything.’

  ‘I thought it would help,’ Joanna said in a small voice from behind Jennifer’s shoulder. Jennifer had never been more grateful for her five-inch heels as she squared herself against the man before her. His words came hot and angry as his voice raised another decibel.

  ‘Help? You think the public are going to support us now? You’ve no idea of the damage you’ve done! Our daughter is missing and you’re sitting there grinning, like you’ve won the lottery. This is our little girl. How could you be so cold?’

  Jennifer planted her hands on Nick’s chest, firmly guiding him back. ‘What’s done is done. There’s nothing we can do about it now.’ Her phone buzzed angrily in her pocket. It had to be HQ, most likely up in arms at the unannounced interview. She took a breath as she assessed the situation. Nick’s face contorted as he tried to control his emotions.

  She turned to face an expressionless Joanna, jumping as the tray from the coffee table fell to the ground behind her, the crockery smashing and its contents soaking into the faded rug. I can’t believe she’s done that, Jennifer thought, reaching for her phone as it vibrated a second time. Nick wrenched open the door and stormed through the hall, disappearing outside. Joanna went in the opposite direction, her vintage couture shoes tapping as she climbed the wide wooden stairs. At least they were apart. Slowly, Jennifer’s heart returned to its normal pace. What had she been thinking, volunteering to come here so soon after her last case? All of this had happened, and it was barely six o clock. But there was more to come. The door creaked open and a small pale child tiptoed forward, her eyes pleading with Jennifer’s.

  It was Abigail’s twin. And she had something to say.

  Chapter Five

  Joanna stared into the full-length Victorian mirror as she allowed the memory of her husband’s anger to seep away. Her outfit had been purchased in that gorgeous little retro shop in Haven, the one with the Portuguese shop assistant. She had chosen the ensemble herself, adding personal touches to ensure its uniqueness. She kept busy in everything she did, because she could not afford to stop, not even for a moment.