‘Do you think it will?’

  Jennifer listened to him suck on a cigarette and exhale the smoke. It was a private habit. She liked Ethan because he was guarded. Just like her.

  ‘You want my honest opinion? I think you’re our best hope. You’ve got to do as much as you can in the next twenty-four hours to find Abigail. DCI Anderson is gunning for you, Jennifer. The last thing I want is to see you transferred somewhere obscure for going against his wishes.’

  ‘You don’t think it will come to that, do you?’

  ‘I won’t let you go . . . not without a fight.’

  It didn’t inspire her with confidence. But her job was the least of her worries. So far, her gut instincts had let her down. The search on Joanna’s father’s property had drawn a blank. So had her trip to the well. Even her communications with Olivia had dried up. But she wasn’t giving up. Twenty-four hours. That’s all the time she had left.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Joanna

  Joanna couldn’t remember the last time she had felt true solitude. Being alone in the house was a novelty. Olivia was in school, Fiona had gone to the shops, and Nick was God knows where.

  * * *

  She found herself leaning against the cutlery drawer. It slid slowly on the rollers as it opened to reveal the knives Fiona used for chopping the ingredients for her wholesome stews. Beside them lay the boning knife, long, sharp and sleek, glinting in the soft afternoon sun. She imagined the cold steel smooth against her skin, cutting her flesh, the pain taking everything away. Olivia’s face appeared in her mind’s eye, and she slammed the door shut. Not today. She would not harm herself today. She needed to get outside; her thoughts were too big for the confines of the house.

  Trees flanked her path as she walked the dried mud path that led to the river. The pure country air invaded her senses, and she raised her hand to swipe away a fly. A light breeze ruffled the leaves, producing a shushing sound, as if to ease the thoughts circling in her brain. Spring had finally arrived, and she welcomed the heat of the sun on her face. She rarely went for walks. To be truthful, she had never liked the countryside. When they first moved in, it was a novelty. Nick hired a JCB to tear down some of the more neglected outbuildings. He sat in the cab wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, his arms rippling as he controlled the machine. She had watched, mesmerised, as the powerful jaws butted the shed walls and they fell with ease as if they were made of cardboard. He shook the dust out of his hair and she followed him into the hay barn, teasing him until they had sex on top of the bales of straw. The smell of the straw tearing into her thighs was a bittersweet memory. It was the last time they had been intimate. He was slipping away from her, back to Matt. She could not let that happen.

  Her ankle bent as she stumbled over a chunk of dried mud, disturbed from footsteps of previous searchers. She rubbed her heel, already reddening from the dusty patent shoes. Balancing on her toe, she shook out the crumbles of soil. Her perfume was sweet and flowery, and responsible for attracting the insects that were gathering around her head in a cloud. She hated insects, especially spiders. So did Abigail. When they first moved in, Nick would have to make a grand gesture of checking everywhere to ensure there were none lurking under her bed or over the wardrobe. Then Joanna would tuck her daughters in at night, closing her eyes as they pulled her in for a cuddle. Abigail was such a thoughtful child, presenting her with a newly plucked bouquet from the weeds that bordered the stone wall outside her home. She used to call dandelions ‘fluffy flowers’, and would pick them for her on the days she looked sad. They were kept in a jam jar on the window sill in the kitchen. The jam jar was always full.

  Joanna’s breath shuddered and she realised she was crying. Then it occurred to her that she had every right to cry, so she allowed the tears to flow, releasing the tightness in her chest, which had grown to unbearable levels. She kept walking, the warm breeze cooling her tears as they dripped past her jawline. She walked until she didn’t know where she was any more.

  She missed the city, the background hustle and bustle all hours of the day and night. She missed the scream of police sirens, the shouts of drunken revellers as they poured out of the clubs, and the refuse lorries at 6 a.m. as they reversed on the streets, the beep beep signalling dawn. At least there, she was never alone with her thoughts. She wondered for the hundredth time why she had to go and change everything. Coming back to Haven had been a mistake. She had hoped that Abigail’s disappearance would at least bring them closer together, but all it did was drive an even bigger wedge between them. If she had researched the internet, she would have discovered that most couples split up after the loss of a child.

  The sweet tangy smell of rapeseed rose around her and she knew she had reached the outskirts of the river. No need to panic, she knew exactly where she was now. The path was still well trampled, and all she had to do was follow it back home. She wiped her face with her fingers, staining her thumbs with mascara. Poking her fingers in her pocket, she pulled out a tissue to blow her nose. It occurred to her that the person fronting the hate campaign could be watching her right now. Any moment they would reach out and touch her. They could carry out their threat to hurt her, and there would be nobody to hear her scream. She imagined a hooded figure jumping from the bushes and pinning her to the hard dusty ground. His breath coming fast and thick, carrying a sour smell. Alcohol perhaps, or cannabis. Strong hands punching her in the face, tugging at her clothes. She would let them. She wouldn’t put up a fight because, as they said, it was all she deserved. She would lay there, lifeless, until they had finished with her, and later on she would stagger home, limping and bleeding to . . . to what? A cold reception. Because nobody would believe her. They would probably think she had punched herself, or torn her own clothes. She had cried wolf before. There was no reason to think she wouldn’t do it again. But what if she persisted? Gave a statement to the police? Published her story? Would she get some sympathy then? Her mind raced through the possibilities. Evidence. They would need evidence of an attack. Bruising. Bleeding. No. That would not do at all. The shriek of a woodland creature made her jump in her skin, and she spun on her feet, picking her way through the path, half trotting, half running home. Just what was wrong with her? Cold fear stabbed her heart. Her mind was unravelling, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Diary Entry

  People say you should never underestimate the love a parent has for a child. But I’ve never been on the receiving end, at least not at Abigail’s age. Sometimes I can hear her in the ether, calling out in the dark. My mind becomes tortured with her pleas, and I turn the other way, but her voice still filters through. I hope when all this is over that the cries stop. Such things would drive a sane person mad. A cold chill overcomes me as I imagine spending the rest of my life listening to her pleading to come home. At least Olivia is quiet. Sitting there, pathetically sucking her thumb with those big saucer eyes. Sometimes she looks at me and words pass through her expression. I know. But as long as she is silent, she is safe.

  I may be able to shrug off her knowing looks, but not the detective. She’s from a special department. She can see into your soul. She’s acting like she wants to help, but she’s not to be trusted. I recognise her kind because I’m an expert in the art of manipulation myself. She’s beginning to make me nervous, and I wish she would go away. Given my plans, that’s not likely to happen any time soon. Sometimes I look back on this diary and I can barely remember writing the words. It’s like there are two sides to me, and that’s a frightening prospect. I know that Abigail’s cries aren’t real, because they’re too far away to carry on the wind. Yet, sometimes I look around, to see if anyone else can hear them too. I’ve been making plans, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go through with them. If her screams haunt me while she’s alive, what will become of me after her death? But it’s far too late to back out now. I’ve stowed away the accelerant and prepared for the fire. This time tomorrow, it will all be over.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  ‘Come in. Nick told me to expect you,’ Matt said, pulling open the door and allowing Jennifer past.

  His Lacoste shirt and belted trousers flattered his youthful build, and if Jennifer didn’t know what he did for a living she would have guessed him to be quite affluent. A barrister perhaps, or a cosmetic surgeon. Accountancy seemed flat in comparison. Sensible. His auburn hair had been gelled to one side in a trendy style, long on the top with a short back and sides.

  Jennifer took a seat on a black leather couch. The flat was the polar opposite to Karen’s, although given that Matt, at thirty-five, was ten years older, he had had more time to accumulate his wealth. It was clean and functional, with colourful prints, modern furniture and floor-length curtains. But it was more like a hotel room than a home; something assembled from a catalogue rather than graced with the personal touch.

  Pleasantries over, Jennifer set to work and took a witness statement, covering the new information which had come to light. A widescreen television pictured an image of a solider frozen in battle as his Call of Duty game was paused. The statement was brief, as Matt had already covered most of it in his interview. They began with his relationship with the family, how long he had lived in Haven, and general background details. It did not take long to get to the crux of the matter. Jennifer’s long slim fingers tapped the statement into the keyboard of her new laptop. The force was finally going electronic, and it was an improvement on the traditional paper forms that sometimes went astray.

  ‘So you’re telling me that you’ve been in an intimate relationship with Nick for five years before he met Joanna, and reignited your relationship recently, your most recent encounter being the day Abigail went missing?’

  Matt raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ve met since then, but that was our most recent sexual encounter, yes.’

  Jennifer gave two nods of the head. ‘And on the day in question, you were giving him oral sex when Olivia crept in on you and screamed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Matt said, a rosy bloom creeping up his cheeks. ‘Although it was more of a gasp than a scream.’

  Jennifer did not raise her eyes from the statement. Matt’s and Nick’s affair was mild compared to some of the things she’d heard in her career. ‘How did Nick react?’ she asked.

  Matt clasped his fingers over his knee, dividing his attention between Jennifer and the frozen Xbox game. ‘He was horrified. He told me to go, said he’d sort things out with Olivia.’

  ‘How did you feel?’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Embarrassed . . .’ He emitted a nervous laugh. ‘I mean, what kid wants to walk in on that?’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Nick didn’t handle it very well. He lost the plot. I told him Olivia looked scared, but he got annoyed, told me it was all my fault, that I shouldn’t have come. So I left.’

  ‘When you say he was frightening Olivia, in what way did you mean? Was he shouting at her? Touching her?’

  Matt swivelled the ring on his index finger, a silver wedding ring, just like the one on Nick’s left hand. When he didn’t answer, Jennifer fixed him with a stare.

  His voice eventually came, with the cautious tone of someone tackling a very thorny subject.

  ‘He was bending down to her level, and his hands were on her forearms. He wasn’t hurting her or anything, she was upset and he was trying to get through to her.’

  A question rose in Jennifer’s mind. Something that hadn’t occurred to her until now.

  ‘How did you know it was Olivia?’

  Matt frowned, his eyebrows drawing together as he considered the prospect.

  ‘Abigail’s missing, so it had to be her.’

  ‘But how did you know it was Olivia and not Abigail that found you?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘Nick said it was. I can’t tell them apart. Why, you don’t think . . .’

  ‘No, I’m just asking, nothing more.’

  * * *

  Jennifer chased the thought away as she left Matt’s flat. It was an uncomfortable thought, but every avenue had to be explored. The child that had found them in the shed could just as easily have been Abigail. Or they both could have been present. Jennifer had witnessed Nick’s temper over the smallest of things. What if he had silenced his daughter for good, with Olivia as a witness? Her heart plummeted as she considered the possibility.

  She re-read Matt’s account as she sat in her car. He was more comfortable with his sexuality than Nick, and Jennifer got the feeling that Matt was Nick’s first male tryst. Matt had been full-on, pressurising Nick to leave his wife, but the more Matt pushed, the further away he seemed to drive Nick, who was haunted by his parents’ strict upbringing and narrow-minded views. It was hardly surprising that Nick had begun suffering with insomnia around the time of his affair. With pressure from every angle, stress had taken charge of his body, filling him with doubt and longing in equal measures. But were these longings enough for Nick to kill for? Had Matt wanted them to get caught? Used every ounce of his sexuality to tempt Nick into sex so near his family home? Or perhaps he was so annoyed by Nick’s reaction that he had abducted Abigail in a fit of fury himself. How did the old saying go? It’s the quiet ones you have to watch. Jennifer propped her elbow against the car window. So many possibilities, but so little evidence. Fresh droplets of rain pattered against the foggy windscreen, and her thoughts drifted to Abigail. Lost, afraid, alone. She turned on her wipers, allowing the swish swish noise to wash over her. This would not be one of those cases that was left a mystery. She felt it in her bones. Time would provide her with the answers. Abigail had not wandered off or got lost. Someone was lying to her. Someone close to home. And she had just twenty-four hours to find out who.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Jennifer gritted her teeth as she listened in to Joanna’s phone call. More interference from DCI Anderson. He was her superior officer, and therefore deserved respect, but right now she couldn’t help but be irritated by his call. She steeled herself as she listened in. It was the first time she had heard Joanna raise her voice.

  ‘I’ve said no and that’s it. Olivia’s been through enough upset. . . . She hasn’t spoken a word since Abigail’s disappearance . . . What developments? No . . . No, I did not know that.’ She shifted the phone to her other ear and threw Jennifer a narrow-eyed stare. ‘No, she didn’t tell me . . . Well, this has come to a surprise to me. I’ll speak to DC Knight, but as I said before, I’m not agreeing to Olivia speaking to anyone else.’

  Jennifer groaned. DCI Anderson had told her of Olivia’s whispered conversations. He was clutching at straws. The investigation against Radcliffe had collapsed due to lack of forensic evidence, and DCI Anderson was using whatever he could to get a shock response. It’s all right for him in his comfortable office, Jennifer thought. I’m the one who has to take the flack. Joanna had barely ended the call before she turned on Jennifer.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Olivia’s been speaking to you?’

  ‘What did he say?’ Jennifer replied, trying to dodge the question.

  ‘He said that Olivia’s spoken. She said she knows where Abigail is.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Jennifer said, aware everyone else had gone quiet. ‘Can we talk in the living room?’

  Joanna nodded, and briskly led the way.

  Jennifer could not fail to notice that Joanna was shedding her old persona, by trying to take control.

  ‘Would you like to explain what’s going on? If my daughter’s talking, then I have a right to know about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to upset you. Olivia has uttered a few words but she doesn’t seem to have any recollection of them afterwards.’ What she didn’t say was that her superior officers were the ones who had told her to keep it from the family in the first place. Such an admission may have been slightly gratifying, but would have made the police look unprofessional.

  ‘Has she communicated with Abigail?’

  Jennifer stared out the window, buying some time as she tried to work out what she was going to say. Word might get around, and she couldn’t risk people knowing that Olivia had alluded to Abigail’s whereabouts because it could put her in danger. ‘Nothing really,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound natural. ‘At least, nothing which would lead us to Abigail.’

  ‘You should have told me. I am her mother, after all.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to put her under any pressure.’

  ‘Well, your DCI Anderson is. He insinuated I’m a bad mother because I wouldn’t allow her to speak to a psychiatrist. He said people would make their own inferences as to why I wouldn’t agree.’

  Footsteps creaked on the stairs in the hall, and Jennifer kept her voice low. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure. We all want to find Abigail. I don’t think it would do any harm for her to speak to someone.’

  ‘I know I’ve not always been there for her,’ Joanna said, flatly. ‘But I’m trying to make up for that now. You can talk to her, but that’s it. I don’t want any more people in our home.’

  ‘They’re taking me out soon, maybe even tomorrow,’ Jennifer said, glancing up at the fresh batch of cobwebs clinging to the ceiling. A part of her couldn’t wait to be shot of Blackwater farm. But she had hoped her time there would have ended on a better footing.

  Joanna folded her arms in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘Then speak to her today.’

  * * *

  Jennifer went straight upstairs to Olivia, and scooted up on the lumpy bed. She pulled a Raggedy Ann doll from under the blanket, and found several other toys tucked away.