Satisfied there was nobody watching, he pulled on his balaclava and gloves. The thick wire cable felt clumsy in his hands. Radcliffe was strong. What would happen if the tables were turned and Radcliffe tried to kill him? Would it be such a bad thing? At least he would be with his daughter. It was an option he would have surrendered to, if it were not for the tiny spark of hope that she may still be alive. He thought of his Matt, and his own fractured family, Joanna and the girls. What would become of them? He gritted his teeth. He could either turn back now or get on with it.

  He rammed his weight against the back door and it flew open with a shudder.

  Nick was surprised. He hadn’t expected entry to be that easy. It couldn’t have been bolted because there it was, gaping open in front of him. The yellow torch beam jittered, exposing his tattered nerves. He clicked the off switch and stowed it in his jacket pocket. The cottage was not bathed the glow of street lamps, like many homes in Haven. But he had been walking at night for so long now, his eyes were accustomed to darkness. Nick took a breath, trying to calm his galloping heart. A scrawny-looking mouse hopped over the dishes in the kitchen sink, stopping him in his tracks. Nick slowly twisted the door knob.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Nick froze at the sight of Radcliffe’s sleeping silhouette. He had expected him to be in bed, not asleep in an armchair, a crocheted blanket over his lap. It was 3 a.m., and this was not a social visit. The hall light guided his path as he picked his way through Charles’s litter-strewn living room, and Nick raised his nose to detect the sweet tang of cannabis in the air. He wasn’t here for that. This was not police business. Each step inside transported him further towards the wrong side of the law, and his breath came thick and heavy as his heart pounded in his chest. Beads of moisture gathered around the mouth hole of his balaclava, and an itch began to form. He wanted to pull the thing off, to wake up Radcliffe and ask him what he’d done with his daughter. He sidestepped the empty coffee mugs and overspilling ashtrays, licking his lips to ease the dryness in his throat. Days of shouting for his daughter had made it raw and painful, but it was the least of his concerns. A voice in the back of his mind whispered that this was all too convenient, that nobody left their doors unbolted any more, especially not someone accused of child abduction. But there was no turning back now. This bastard had taken his little girl, probably done unspeakable things to her and disposed of her like a piece of rubbish without a backward glance. They had allowed him into their home, fed him, paid him. And he had been eyeing her up, watching her run around the farmyard. The thought repulsed him. Had he intended on taking Abigail all along? Their bright spark? Their livewire? Or was he going to settle on Olivia? Quiet, trusting Olivia, ready to take anyone’s hand. He had allowed this man to hurt his family. It was time to make him pay. Blind hate rose up inside him as he approached the slumbering figure. Radcliffe slept with his legs crossed, wearing the same blue pullover which had become snagged from the briars paving the entrance to the woods. Nick’s jaw tightened as he remembered that day; Radcliffe insisting on pushing through the thorns to investigate an old plastic bin liner. Had he been putting himself at the scene in case his forensics were found later? Or was he a leech, feeding off their pain?

  A voice whispered in his consciousness. It was the voice of his wife. You’re not a violent man. Come home. We’ll find another way. The voice was an act of self-preservation. If he was caught . . . Being in prison was every police officer’s nightmare, and he would rather be dead than face the people he had put away. He shuffled behind Radcliffe, jostling against a coffee table. Radcliffe’s snore came to an abrupt halt. Clumsy stupid idiot, he admonished himself, preparing to bolt for the door. Gradually Radcliffe’s breathing returned to a slow, steady pace.

  Nick steeled himself for action, every muscle in his body tensing as he gripped the wire flex. The voice piped up again with more urgency. Stop and think about what you’re about to do. This is murder. It wasn’t difficult to counteract, because his justification had been playing in a loop since he left the house. What about Abigail? She’s just a child. Did he stop and give her a chance? Standing behind the chair, he thrust the cord over Radcliffe head, tightening it around his throat.

  Radcliffe’s eyes snapped open, and his body slackened as Nick overpowered him.

  Nick expected him to cry out, to clutch at his arms, to scream, to fight. But he sat there, immobile, blinking in the shallow light. As if he wanted to die. Nick pulled his bulk from the chair as he tightened the grip around his neck. Radcliffe was muscled from physical work. He could take Nick if he wanted to, but he made no effort to defend himself. ‘Where’s Abigail?’ Nick rasped. In the darkness the two figures were bonded by the loss of a little girl.

  Eyes bulging, Radcliffe gurgled a whisper, but Nick couldn’t make out the man’s words. He eased his grip slightly, aware it could be a trap. Radcliffe’s hands fell to his side, making no attempt to grasp the cord threatening to end his life. A trickle of sweat fell into Nick’s eye as he fought to support the dead weight. He blinked back the stinging salt liquid and growled in Radcliffe’s ear.

  ‘I said, where is Abigail? Tell me now or I’ll kill you. I mean it.’

  ‘Make it quick,’ Radcliffe whispered hoarsely.

  Nick loosened his grip. He had not planned for this. Was that why Radcliffe had left his door unlocked? Why he was sitting in his chair? Had he been waiting for Nick to come along and administer his punishment? He released his grip and threw the man across the room. He would not grant him his wish. Radcliffe choked and spluttered as he was released, his words tinged with disappointment.

  ‘Why didn’t you finish it, Nick?’

  Nick ripped the balaclava from his head, anger and bitterness coursing through him.

  ‘Because it’s what you wanted. What have you done with my daughter, you bastard? Is she here?’

  Radcliffe rose to his feet, one hand around his neck. ‘I’ve not touched Abigail, I swear.’

  ‘Why did you come back?’ Nick said, slightly dizzy as a wave of sickness took his breath. He had almost committed murder.

  Radcliffe approached him warily, an eerie calmness in his voice. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I can tell you the truth, if you want it.’

  ‘So you’re ready to confess?’ Nick said, flexing the cable in his hands. But it was all for show. Deep down, his resolve was fading.

  Radcliffe sighed, shaking his head. ‘Your DCI has been lying to you, Nick.’

  ‘If you’re trying to delay . . . have you called the police?’ Nick said, peering out the dingy window for flashing lights.

  ‘And what good would come from that?’ Radcliffe said, switching on the living room light. ‘DCI Anderson is trying to frame me.’ He brushed past Nick and flicked on the light switch. ‘Here, let me show you.’

  Nick blinked as the glare of the one-hundred-watt bulb stung his eyes. It threw the room into sharp focus, and Nick glanced around as his police brain searched for clues. A picture of dogs playing cards around a table hung over a coal-darkened fireplace, and next to the padded chair lay several stacks of books.

  Radcliffe caught his stare. ‘It’s Tsundoku,’ he said, with perfect pronunciation. A smile caressed his lips, as if the word invoked a memory of long ago. ‘It’s Japanese for out of control book piles.’

  He pushed his hand into his jeans pocket, pulling out a piece of red string. On the end was a key. Gesturing at Nick, he took it to a door at the back of the room, and undid the bolt. Nick’s mind was working overtime. He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers around his torch. It was solid, unyielding, and a useful weapon if things went awry. Radcliffe could turn on him at any minute, and for all he knew Abigail could be behind the locked door. He patted his jacket pocket with his left hand and felt the outline of his phone. He could call the police if he needed to, say that Radcliffe invited him there, and as for the cable . . . that was easily disposed of. But by God, if Abigail was behind that door he would kill the bastard and fuck the consequences.

  The bolt sprang open with an audible clunk, and Nick’s eyes widened as the door opened before him.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  ‘Now do you see?’ Radcliffe said, casting his arm wide. ‘What’s left of my life is within these four walls.’

  Nick’s mouth gaped open as he took in the array of colourful oil paintings of children at play. There must have been two hundred works of art, in varying shapes and sizes. What could not be hung on the walls was stacked in the corner, laced with cobwebs. Half-finished paintings sat on easels, the canvases daubed with a big red X as the artist’s frustration became evident. Only the most beautiful pictures were framed and hung on the main wall. And they were enough to take Nick’s breath away.

  ‘Did you paint these?’ he said in awe.

  The same children were featured throughout; a dark-haired boy and a freckle-faced girl, playing in the sunlight, running through fields, rolling down hills, as a dark-haired woman stood watchfully over them.

  ‘That’s my wife,’ Radcliffe said, pointing to the woman in the blue-flowered dress. ‘And these are my children.’

  ‘I didn’t know you have . . .’ Nick said, their eyes meeting, cutting him off mid-sentence as his own pain reflected back at him. The pain of a loss so deep it leaves you as nothing but an empty core.

  ‘Memories,’ Radcliffe said, blinking back the tears. ‘That’s all I’ve left. But I didn’t bring you here for sympathy. I wanted to show you because I’m not some paedophile downloading images of children. I just paint them.’

  It was true. ‘I . . . I had no idea you were an artist,’ Nick said, shame washing over him.

  ‘We don’t all wear berets and carry easels,’ Radcliffe said, gesturing to the framed photograph taking centre stage on the wall. This was not a painting, but a photo of long ago. Nick recognised the family, or at least one of the members. It was Radcliffe with the woman and children from the paintings. But Radcliffe had grown a beard and had gained several lines on his face since then. ‘I had an art exhibition and was meant to join them in Thailand the next day. Petra loved to travel. She insisted we travel long-haul with the kids instead of the usual Costa Brava holiday. It was tiring, but it opened their minds.’ Radcliffe dropped his gaze from the photo, and turned to Nick. ‘I lost them all in one fell swoop, because of my selfishness.’

  ‘How?’ Nick said.

  ‘A tsunami. They were on the beach when it happened. They didn’t stand a chance.’ Radcliffe cleared his throat as his voice broke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nick said. ‘But what has this to do with Abigail?’

  ‘Nothing. But do you think I’d put another person through my pain?’ Radcliffe said. ‘I lost my family ten years ago, but I can’t let go of them. Not yet. But my paintings, they lack life essence. I can’t paint my children from memory any more. So I spend time in the company of other people’s children . . . but not the way you think. It helps me to paint. I have photos on my computer. Your DCI knows they’re innocent, but he doesn’t care. All of these children, they help keep mine alive.’

  Nick’s eyes fell on a painting of the boy and girl in a field of sunflowers. ‘This was painted from the photo of Abigail and Olivia, wasn’t it?’

  Radcliffe nodded sadly. ‘Yes. There were a pile of photos on the table and I took one. I’m sorry. I miss my kids. I don’t want their memory to die.’

  As Radcliffe broke down, Nick could see he was telling the truth. It was like looking at himself, in ten years’ time. He couldn’t allow himself to end up like this. His daughter’s disappearance had to be resolved.

  ‘Don’t you know anything about Abigail?’

  Radcliffe swabbed his tears with his sleeve. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? I wouldn’t wish this pain on another living soul. I should have been with my family that day. If I had been, I could have got them to safety. It’s my fault they’re dead.’

  Nick could barely believe what he had heard. The police investigation was totally misleading, and DCI Anderson was at the forefront of it. He had heard the man was a bully, and sailed close to the wind when it came to getting what he wanted to push him further up the ladder of promotion. But to purposely mislead him . . . he almost killed this man. Radcliffe lit a dim lamp in the living room and handed him a small glass of whisky.

  ‘Here. It’ll take the edge off.’

  ‘Are you not having one yourself?’ Nick said.

  ‘No.’ He said, switching off the harsh bulb overhead. ‘If I start, I may never stop.’

  The men talked until dawn broke and the sun began to filter through the curtains. Nick didn’t have to believe him. The fact that the man had suffered a loss may have driven him to take his daughter. But all of his senses told him that Radcliffe was telling the truth. He was just grateful he had discovered this before things went any further. Red welts were beginning to come up on Radcliffe’s neck and Nick dropped his gaze to the floor.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Nick said, remembering Radcliffe’s whispers as he wrapped the cable around his neck. ‘There’s been enough loss. You’ve got to find a way of carrying on, because that’s what your family would have wanted.’

  Radcliffe stared through deadened eyes. ‘I’m moving away when all this is dealt with. There’s no point in staying any more. The newspapers have taken care of that.’

  Nick drained the last of his whisky and laid the glass on the fireplace. ‘But you can talk to the papers. We can sort this out.’

  ‘I don’t want to live here any more. Haven will be tainted by this forever. It’s why I moved away from my last address. It may have happened thousands of miles away, but their deaths might as well have been on my doorstep.’ Radcliffe sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s time I went back to my family and friends. At least they understand me there.’

  Nick stared blindly at the floor, at a complete loss for what to say. He had a missing child. How do you comfort a man who has lost his entire family?

  As if reading his mind, Radcliffe spoke. ‘I know you and Joanna have your ups and downs, but take my advice and keep her close. Be there for Olivia as a family. I used to row with Paula all the time. We argued the last time we spoke. What I’d give for one more day with her, just to say I’m sorry. I should have seen what was important, instead of staying behind for work.’

  ‘You probably wouldn’t be alive today if you had.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Radcliffe said.

  Nick left the house with a heavy heart. How could he have gone so wrong? And who could he trust? So far, the only person that had been honest with him was DC Knight. He needed to get his life back on track. Then he needed to speak to Jennifer Knight.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Five Days Gone

  Nick’s disclosure about visiting Radcliffe’s home was enough to make Jennifer squirt a double dose of hand sanitiser on the palms of her hands. It was frightening to think that DCI Anderson would go so far as to mislead the team. His insinuations about Radcliffe weren’t illegal, but it was certainly immoral in her eyes, and she wondered if he had been responsible for leaking the story of his arrest to the press. Twisting an investigation to get a result was relatively unknown in Haven, and she began to feel uncomfortable under his leadership.

  She thought of Radcliffe, and the pain he must have endured to torture himself, creating painting after painting. It almost made her glad she didn’t have children. Her relationship with Will was moving at such a rapid pace it made her nervous. She wasn’t familiar with having such a steady, reliable influence in her life. She was used to making her own way, looking out for herself. Almost losing Will had frightened her to death. To leave herself open to such potential pain when she had already been through so much already . . . Splatters of rain began to fall on her hair and face, shaking her out of her thoughts.

  That morning in briefing she had been met with with a cool reception by her colleagues as she protested Radcliffe’s innocence. She had been sharply put in her place by DCI Anderson telling her that Radcliffe was far from eliminated; that although his van had come back clean from forensics, it was just a setback in their line of investigation. She could tell by his disapproving tone that he would seek to have her removed from the family, if he hadn’t already. She blinked away the rain as her phone rang in her pocket. She could stay outside for a while. Nick’s parents returned with the local priest for more prayers, persistence apparently being one of their qualities. She was in no hurry to interrupt. Taking shelter in the cow shed, she took the call. It was DI Cole. She explained about Nick’s visit, without incriminating him. Radciffe’s motives for speaking to children were a lot less damning when his past was revealed. Ethan sighed, not sounding altogether surprised.

  ‘I’ve heard DCI Anderson can be creative with the truth. He’s already been on the phone. He wants you out of there, he thinks you’re doing more harm than good.’

  Jennifer balled her fist. ‘If doing more harm than good means stopping an innocent man getting charged for murder, then I must be in the wrong job. Whose side are we on?’

  ‘That’s just it, though, isn’t it? He doesn’t believe Radcliffe is innocent. He’s currently organising searches for all the properties where Radcliffe’s worked. I’ve bought you another day. Break it to the family tomorrow. Anything could happen between now and then.’