‘Wendy’s my stepmother,’ Nick said, the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl. ‘My real mother’s dead . . . for all the good she was.’ Nick stared at his coffee, his face growing dark.

  ‘So you’ve got this all wrong . . . I love my wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let this go.’ Pushing her coffee aside, Jennifer rose to leave.

  ‘I suppose the whole station knows,’ Nick said, stilling her departure.

  Jennifer sat back down. ‘What do you take me for? But I think you’re doing your colleagues a disservice. It’s not like the olden days. There are plenty of gay people in the police force.’

  ‘I can’t go public. I’ve got my marriage to think of,’ Nick said.

  ‘And Olivia?’ Jennifer said, relieved to be unwinding the truth from the tightly bound spool of lies.

  Nick glanced around before responding. ‘I was wrong to ask Olivia to lie for me. I know that now. But I panicked.’

  Jennifer nodded in understanding, but in truth she was bluffing. She had no idea what he was going to say. All she could think about was the photo on the mantelpiece in Karen’s home. A picture of Karen, Nick and Matt, cheek to cheek as they held up their pints and beamed for the camera. The reason that Joanna wasn’t jealous of Karen was because there was nothing to be jealous of.

  ‘Joanna knew about Matt when we met. My parents . . . they had disowned me, but Joanna got us back together again, at the expense of my friendship with Matt. Meeting Joanna seemed right. I wanted to start a family, and for a few years everything was good.’

  ‘But?’ Jennifer said, wrapping her fingers around her mug.

  ‘I bumped into Matt on a night out. We started seeing each other, and I knew I’d been living a lie to please my family. I’d decided to get a divorce when Joanna announced she was pregnant.’

  Jennifer nodded, relieved that Nick was opening up to her at last. She thought about Joanna, and her previous comment that if she wanted something, she just took it. ‘Had the pregnancy been planned?’

  Nick nursed his coffee cup. ‘When we first got married, it was all I ever wanted. Joanna said she’d stopped taking the pill, but months later I found a pack under the mattress. I decided to say nothing, as I was questioning my own motivations by then. Then she fell pregnant. She must have found out about the affair and stopped taking them.’

  ‘And neither of you mentioned him?’

  ‘I thought if we had any future as parents I had to come out in the open. I told her about my feelings for Matt. I presumed she’d want a divorce, and I made it clear I wanted to be a father to our children. But instead, she started self-harming. She said she’d cut herself and end the pregnancy if I left her. It was superficial cuts, but I couldn’t take the risk. So I decided to make a fresh start.’

  ‘And Matt?’

  ‘We broke all ties. But then Karen, his sister, came back into my life through work. Matt came to see me on the farm . . .’ Nick swallowed, his discomfort evident.

  ‘And that was the day Abigail disappeared?’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Yes,’ Nick said, his eyes glistening. ‘He said he was going to confront Joanna, get everything out in the open. I persuaded him to give me some time. Things got . . . well, we got carried away . . .’ Nick reddened at the memory. ‘Well . . . anyway, we were half undressed when Olivia ran into the hay shed. I told Matt to leave. I was furious at myself for allowing it to happen, and I shouted at Olivia, telling her she mustn’t say a word. She nodded that she wouldn’t, and went looking for Abigail. I presumed they were playing hide and seek. Only later did I discover Abigail was actually missing. After searching the yard, we went inside to check with Joanna. The police were called and the whole thing snowballed from there.’

  ‘And Matt kept ringing you?’ Jennifer said, sheepishly. ‘I heard you on the phone.’

  ‘Remind me to offer you a place on my department,’ Nick said, relaxing enough to offer her a slight grin. ‘Matt phoned every day. He was upset, angry. In truth, I was scared. I didn’t want anyone to know, least of all my colleagues.’

  ‘What I don’t get is why you’ve been so angry with Joanna when you’re the one cheating on her. You risked being implicated in your daughter’s disappearance rather than tell the truth.’

  Nick looked around the coffee shop. The barista was out of earshot, collecting cups from empty tables. ‘I’m not proud of my actions. My parents are very religious, as you know. When I met Joanna, she was a breath of fresh air. I wanted to be in a normal relationship, and accepted by my parents. I loved her – just not in that way. But every time I tried to leave, she’d self-harm, or threaten to tell my parents.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘It’s been a difficult few years. I thought it couldn’t get any worse. And then Abigail disappeared.’

  ‘So what next?’ Jennifer said.

  Nick stared hard at the dregs of his coffee, wrapping his fingers around the cup, which had grown cold. ‘I need some time to come to terms with Abigail’s disappearance. Maybe now I’ve spoken to you I’ll be able to get some sleep.’

  ‘And what about Olivia? She’s been through so much. She doesn’t need the burden of keeping your secret.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nick said, doubtfully. ‘I’ll talk to her. Soon.’

  Jennifer tried not to grimace. ‘Well, make sure you do. All this self-flagellation isn’t getting you anywhere.’

  Nick’s eyebrows shot up at the comment, but Jennifer spoke again before he could come up with a response. Her thoughts had returned to Abigail, and it felt fitting that their last words should be about the little girl.

  ‘Have you told me absolutely everything, Nick? You really didn’t see Abigail on the day?’

  ‘Go and ask Matt. He’ll confirm our story.’

  Jennifer nodded. Matt was a potential witness and she would be taking a statement from him very soon.

  ‘You mentioned Joanna taking extreme action when she found out about you and Matt in the past. How do you know she hasn’t orchestrated Abigail’s disappearance?’

  ‘The thought did occur to me. But she was with Fiona the whole time. And I don’t think she’d actually lay a finger on the children. She’s never even smacked them.’ Nick’s face clouded over. ‘Besides, the police think it’s Radcliffe.’

  ‘True,’ Jennifer said. ‘Although it’s difficult to know, there’s still a grain of hope that she’s alive.’

  Nick nodded. ‘Up until now, I’ve been clinging on to that hope. She was always shoving biscuits and juice boxes into the pockets of her dungarees. But if she was trapped somewhere, it’s unlikely she could survive much longer.’

  ‘Your relationship with Matt was a vital piece of information. You shouldn’t have hidden it from us.’

  Nick sighed. ‘We all do things we regret.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Another evening, another round of briefings, and the full extent of their enquiries were revealed as DCI Anderson made a short appearance in the briefing room. Up until now, the evidence had been kept close to his chest. The justification for Radcliffe’s arrest had come after the press appeal produced an anonymous call. The witness had stated that Radcliffe was seen carrying something to the woods. Something wrapped in a blanket. According to DCI Anderson, the house search had unearthed vital evidence, such as a browsing history on his computer displaying an interest in children. Nothing illegal, but numerous images from Facebook, downloaded for darker intents. All they needed was a body – or a confession – but neither were forthcoming. The Crown Prosecution Service had authorised bail, as Radcliffe’s van was seized for forensic testing.

  ‘We’ll be able to curtail your time at the house when we get a charge, at least until the court case,’ the DCI said, with the hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Hopefully this will help the family get on with their lives. The search has been resumed in the woods, and I’ll leave it to you to update the family.’ He paused, noticing Jennifer’s glum expression. ‘You don’t seem very happy, DC Knight. What’s the matter with you?’

  That’s rich, Jennifer thought, coming from someone whose face was set in a permanent scowl. ‘Sorry, sir, I just find it hard to believe Radcliffe is responsible. I think our suspect is closer to home.’

  DCI Anderson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you any evidence to back this up?’

  ‘No,’ Jennifer said, wishing she had engaged her brain before her mouth.

  ‘Well, then I suggest you return to the family and update them on our findings. Oh, and keep your opinions on the case to yourself, unless you have anything to substantiate your claims.’

  Jennifer reddened, feeling like a schoolgirl as she was chastised in front of her colleagues. ‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered, keeping her eyes to the floor.

  But as she drove into the yard of Blackwater farm, the nagging voice returned. Her eyes alighted on Nick, and he quickly glanced away, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his wax jacket as he made his way down the dirt track to the woodlands.

  ‘Nick,’ Jennifer shouted, flinging open her car door. ‘We need to talk.’

  The four words stopped him dead in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ Jennifer said, taking her place beside him on the rugged track. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You made the anonymous call.’ Her words were met with silence, conceding the truth of her assertion. ‘You said the woodlands was the one place that couldn’t be searched properly.’

  Nick ploughed down the track with little regard for Jennifer trying to keep up in her unsuitable designer heels. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being on my back?’

  ‘You know me by now,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Does it matter who made the call? Nick said coldly. ‘Looks like it was him after all.’

  ‘Does it?’ Jennifer said. ‘Yes, he’s a loner with a fascination for children, but the only evidence is circumstantial.’

  Nick kept on walking, his brow furrowed as he worked things over.

  ‘Nick, I’m all for catching whoever’s responsible. But not like this. You know it’s wrong, don’t you?’ Jennifer said, the wind stealing her words.

  Nick tilted his head in her direction, shouting over the gusts. ‘They were pulling back the search. And if DCI Anderson believes Radcliffe’s responsible, then it’s good enough for me.’

  ‘They’re bailing him while they carry out forensics on his van. Promise me you won’t go near him.’

  He lowered his head against the rising wind. ‘Of course,’ he replied, his voice cold and even. ‘Justice will prevail in the end.’

  Jennifer slowed, allowing him to carry on without her, until he disappeared from view. She tilted her head to the sky, inhaling the scent of the countryside.

  ‘Come back to us, Abigail,’ she whispered to the wind. ‘Come back to us soon.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Diary Entry

  The most mundane things often trigger memories. Strawberries evoked my latest recollection. The sticky red juice poured from my helping of pie, lacing my fingers and dripping onto my plate. It brought forth an image of her blood, rich and red, pooling onto the wooden floor. It’s been a long time since I dusted off that memory, but I recall it with pristine clarity.

  The photo sessions carried on for another whole year, tapering off when I hit puberty. But instead of going away, my hatred grew, blooming like a bitter poison in my chest. Relief came when I began to turn the hurt outwards, releasing the frustration with each sharp slice of the blade. I began to experiment, using mirrors, glass and broken bottles to gouge my flesh. Mother caught me one day, engraving the word ‘dirty’ into my stomach with the knife she used for peeling potatoes. I had only got as far as ‘dirt’ when she forced me into the car. A whole year of therapy followed, which was a complete waste of my time. As if I was going to lead them to the photos I tried so hard to cover up.

  * * *

  It was little wonder I reacted by pushing Mother down the stairs. She had tried to help in her mealy-mouthed way, but I wasn’t ready to go back there again. Not then. She wanted to have me committed, because the therapy was not working. She said I was impossible to live with, but I knew that all my family wanted was to turn their backs on me. I remember my heart feeling like it was punching its way out of my chest as I stole a glance downstairs. The deathly cracking noise of Mother’s skull hitting the lino reverberated in the sunlit hall, and shockwaves passed through me as reality dawned. The mundane things in life merged with my horror; the bin man whistling as he passed our gate, the low rumble of the lorry trundling by. The world hadn’t stopped spinning, despite the fact my mother was dead. And I had killed her. There was no way she could lose that much blood and still be alive.

  I smile to myself now, as I recall just how shocked I was, and how far I have come. Her skirt had risen ungraciously to her thighs, exposing her pasty white flesh, and her arms and legs splayed in right angles like a human swastika. A wave of nausea passed over me and I grasped for the banister. I took a few deep breaths to calm down, but I couldn’t stop shaking. Then came the primal urge to run. Acting on impulse had always been my downfall. But not any more. Somewhere in the chaos and panic in my brain was a slow sensible voice telling me to wait. In a way, my entry into killing was gentle, easy. But I had to be quick. Delays would raise suspicion. I paced the landing as I worked out what to do next. Purdy, the tortoiseshell cat, narrowed her green eyes at me while Maggie mewed downstairs, making footprints in the blood. I smiled as Panther lapped at the bright red liquid. He was the only one of all her damned cats that I liked. My babies, she called them. They even had their own birth certificates, in a special silver frame. Mine was kept in a brown leather bag, with a grocery list hastily scribbled on the back. Beans, eggs, bread, milk. Ah, treasured moments. Mother found solace in her cats, and I found solace in a razor blade.

  I tiptoed back to the landing, staring in wonderment. I was fourteen years old and had changed the course of our lives with a simple push. She was badly broken, her leg coming back upon itself as if she was trying to kick herself in the mouth. A wild giggle erupted in my throat, startling me as it escaped my lips in a puff of air. It was only then that I realised Purdy was in my grasp. My mind had been busy plotting my survival, but my fingers had reached out to touch her treasured cat. As if sensing my intentions, Purdy flattened her ears and released a mean growl. I wrapped my fingers around her collar and, with some satisfaction, flung her down the stairs. Legs flaying, eyes wide, she bounced against the steps until she landed on Mother’s backside and ran skidding out to the kitchen. I kicked the mat into a ruck on the upstairs landing. It was a stupid place to have it anyway. She had tripped, that was all. It wasn’t difficult to let myself out the back door then make a big show of having found her. Having to play the mourning offspring was exhausting, but as it turned out I had little time for grief. It wasn’t long before I could move on to something new.

  Chapter Fifty

  He should have stayed away, Nick thought, as he circled Radcliffe’s home. The cottage was nestled on the outskirts of Haven, down a dog walkers’ country lane. It had taken every ounce of Nick’s strength to reach it. He showed no mercy to his body as it cried out for sleep, forcing it to walk the three miles through the back roads so he would not be seen. He would not have put it past the police to have him under surveillance, although he had seen the yearly budget and he knew they couldn’t afford it. He thought of DC Knight, her eyes full of conviction when she talked about following correct procedures, and doing things the right way. But contrary to his comment earlier, he knew more than anyone that justice didn’t always prevail. He had closed enough unsolved cases to know of the pain that families carried when the perpetrator of evil was free to roam at will. Life was unfair, but he would not be a victim. If Radcliffe would not tell him Abigail’s whereabouts, then he would die.

  As time ticked mercilessly by, it was a case of his daughter’s life or Radcliffe’s. He didn’t want to believe it, but it had to be him. He had interrogated the police system on Jennifer’s laptop, when she had been distracted by talking to Joanna. Radcliffe was a loner, and police intelligence stated he had an interest in children, photographing them in the town. A police search at his home had produced hundreds of pictures on his computer and more hung on the walls. Why the fascination unless he was building up to something? He vaguely remembered making an anonymous call, in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn’t come. But he had never imagined it would lead to all this. He had only done it so they would keep searching the woods.

  Nick’s stomach churned in a mixture of disgust and hunger. When was the last time he had eaten? He couldn’t remember. His shirt collar felt damp as he rubbed the back of his neck. It felt strange to be on the other side, to be the person about to commit a crime. He pushed his fist into his jacket pocket and ran his fingers over the cable. He had thought long and hard about how he was going to do this. Any form of blood spilling was messy, and left a trail of forensic evidence. No, he would enter like a ghost, catch Radcliffe off-guard while he was asleep. Then he would wrap the cable around his neck, demanding he reveal where Abigail was. A balaclava would protect his identity, and his gloves would prevent the damning fingerprints that would bring police to his door. He had never been to Radcliffe’s home, which now struck him as odd. He was a police officer. How could he allow this man in their lives without knowing how he lived? And now Radcliffe had been bailed. Surely the police would have advised him that returning home would leave him open to vigilante acts? Perhaps he felt he deserved it. Or perhaps it was arrogance. Nick settled on the second reason, because it would make it easier for him to do what he needed to do. Lately he felt as if his masculinity had been called into question, as if somehow he was less of a man. Coming out to DC Knight had been a test for what lay ahead, and he didn’t know if he was strong enough to go through with it. Since Abigail’s disappearance, his pride had taken a battering. What sort of man allows someone to take his daughter and does nothing about it? He knew what his parents would say: that he wasn’t a man at all. Charles Radcliffe wasn’t going to confess. And even if he were sent down, he’d be somewhere that Nick couldn’t get to him. It would eat him up inside, and he’d never truly be free. He needed to confront him; to watch the life leave his eyes.