After calling Nick back from the fields, Jennifer managed to persuade him to go down and re-hang a ‘No Trespassers’ sign and close the rusted gate which led to the farm. Getting Fiona to accompany him was a bonus, providing her with valuable time alone with the troubled child.

  * * *

  Jennifer pulled a fresh sheet of notepaper from her pad and began to draw, using long, sweeping motions. She tuned in to her peripheral vision as she worked, tapping the pen against her lower lip during pauses.

  Olivia lingered at her side, resembling a porcelain doll in her blue cotton dress with small white flowers dotted on the hem. They matched the blue wellingtons gracing her feet, and the cardigan now thrown on the back of the chair. She had not been allowed outside since the disappearance of her sister. Not that she’d get far in a summer dress. The wind and rain showed no sign of abating, and Jennifer imagined Nick and Fiona trying to pull across the old rusted gate and fix the flapping ‘No Trespassers’ sign to the twisted metal.

  Jennifer cocked her head to one side as she put the finishing touches to her drawing. She wished she were as talented as her partner Will, but her effort at drawing a horse would hopefully pay off – she had learned that the twins had been promised a pony by their parents, as a reward for leaving their friends and moving to the farm.

  Olivia’s breath fell on her neck as she crept up to look over Jennifer’s shoulder. The little girl’s sense of loss was palpable, and Jennifer employed her perceptions to decipher her emotional state. Olivia’s deep sense of sorrow wrapped around her like a cold impenetrable fog. Jennifer fought the urge to shudder as the little girl drew near. There was something else . . . something on the periphery that she couldn’t quite put her finger on . . . Why haven’t you found me? The distant words whispered in her ear, making her jerk upwards. Had she heard them aloud or were they from the other side? Sometimes the communications were so clear, it was difficult to tell the difference. She couldn’t stop drawing, as it was the only thing keeping Olivia captivated. The voice sounded like it had come from a child, but . . . Jennifer bit her lip. It couldn’t have been Olivia. Could it? She wanted nothing more than to drop her pen and question her outright, but she risked frightening her off. This child’s trust had to be earned. ‘Did you say something, sweetie?’ she said nonchalantly, keeping her eyes on the page. She was met with silence. Jennifer finished the lavish mane, and forced herself to carry on as normal. ‘This is my aunt’s pony,’ she said softly. ‘I told her I’d help think of a name but I haven’t been able to come up with one.’

  No response. Jennifer sighed as she stared at the completed picture. ‘He’s much nicer than this, though, he has a lovely long mane, and he’s black and white. There’s a name for black and white ponies but I can’t think . . .’ Jennifer tapped the pen against her mouth once more. ‘Oh, what’s it called?’

  Olivia was facing her now, the look of curiosity replaced with one of slight annoyance, most likely because Jennifer didn’t know that black and white ponies were called piebald. Her colourless lips parted to speak, but she paused, the words trapped in her throat.

  ‘Could you help me think of a name?’ Jennifer said. ‘He’s really friendly, picks up his feet when he trots, and goes like a dream over the jumps. He’s very cheeky too, quite the little rascal in fact.’

  She recalled her sister’s old pony magazines when they were young, using as many terms as she could think of to ignite the little girl’s interest. She rested her pen on the table. Olivia’s fingers slowly wrapped around the black ballpoint pen as she pinched a corner of paper and pulled it across the table. With one finger, she pushed her circular gold-rimmed glasses back up her nose, focusing on the paper in front of her. Her fingers gripped the pen as wrote the word ‘Rascal’ in wobbly letters, then pushed it across at Jennifer, a smile tugging on her lips. The police had already tried to question Olivia, to no avail. Apart from shaking her head to indicate ‘yes’ and ‘no’, she had not given any account of her twin’s disappearance. They had not pushed the matter, but it didn’t take supernatural powers to figure out there was more to Abigail’s disappearance than met the eye.

  ‘Why of course. Rascal! What a brilliant name! Now, you were going to tell me what colour he is, weren’t you?’

  Olivia opened her mouth, her interest in the horse eroding her vow of silence. She had not heard her father enter until he was upon them. His frown was barely discernible, but Jennifer caught it, and in a fleeting second it passed. Olivia’s eyes widened, and she threw the pen on the pad before running out of the room, her thick wellington boots making a clump clump noise as they hastily hit the floor.

  Nick shied from the question in Jennifer’s eyes.

  ‘The gate’s closed. You’ll need a hand opening it when you leave, though.’

  Jennifer nodded, pulling back her sleeve to look at her watch. It was early evening and he was hinting at her leaving already. ‘The sniffer dogs are coming over soon. I need some things of Abigail’s that carry a scent. Bedding usually works well, something that hasn’t been interfered with much.’

  Nick led the way to Abigail’s bedroom, which she shared with Olivia. It was a typical girly room, with stickers on the doors and fairy lights over the two single beds. The high ceilings carried the heat upwards, leaving a slight chill in the air, and the long sash window provided a good view of the farmyard below. Nick glanced outside before returning his gaze to the bed near the door. ‘That’s Abigail’s bed. Nobody’s touched it since she . . .’ Nick cleared his throat as the words died on his tongue.

  Jennifer snapped on a pair of PVC gloves and removed the pillowcase cover. ‘Joanna . . . How is she with Abigail? There’s not been any falling out, has there? No reason for her to run away?’

  ‘No. Joanna’s a good mum, but since we moved she’s been a different person.’ Nick stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze on the empty bed. ‘I don’t mean to get angry with her, but I can’t help it. She’s barely set foot outside to search, and apart from that TV interview, she’s just carried on as normal.’

  Jennifer gently folded the pillowcase and placed it in an evidence bag. ‘People don’t always act rationally in cases like these. Perhaps closing herself off to what’s happened is her mind’s way of protecting itself.’

  ‘I’m worried that people will think it’s disgusting, using Abigail’s disappearance as an excuse to get her face on television and plug her business. You know what Haven’s like, it’s a small-minded community. It won’t take long for this to gain momentum.’

  Jennifer did not have the heart to tell him it had already begun. ‘Has she considered victim support? Counselling?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘She won’t get counselling because she says there’s nothing wrong.’

  Jennifer picked up a photo album from the bedside table. She flicked through the pages of photos, old and new. ‘Can I borrow this?’ she asked, slipping it in the bag as Nick nodded his response. ‘Has Joanna been acting strangely in the lead up to this? Anything out of sorts? How have you been as a couple? Any undue stress?’ Jennifer said, instantly regretting firing so many questions in bullet style. It was a bad habit, born from impatience, and usually served to shut conversations down.

  Nick’s mouth twitched in a smile. ‘You forget I’m a copper too, so I know where you’re going with this. As frustrated as I am with my wife, I know she wouldn’t hurt a hair on Abigail’s head.’

  Jennifer reddened. ‘Sorry. I’m just trying to get a feel for things, in case there’s anything I can do to help.’

  Nick picked up one of Abigail’s dolls and touched its hair. Like all the toys in the girls’ bedroom, it was one of two. He placed it back beside its counterpart and turned to face her.

  ‘If I’m honest, I feel your presence is putting undue stress on my family. But if I don’t have you here, I won’t get immediate updates. I’ve asked for full disclosure. Whatever the news, I want to know.’ Nick picked up a hairbrush and dropped it into the evidence bag. ‘It’s Abigail’s. Joanna always insisted they have separate things. Take the bed sheet as well. That’ll be enough.’

  Jennifer turned to the bed, feeling tension creep in the air. Nick resented her presence, and was not shy in telling her so. She thought about Olivia’s reaction when he had walked in. She couldn’t help but feel that he was the reason behind her silence. There was something rotten about suspecting a fellow police officer. But something was wrong, and she hoped her suspicion was not a sign that Nick would become a suspect in Abigail’s disappearance.

  Chapter Eight

  It was 10.15 p.m. when Jennifer got back to the station. She was forgiven for missing evening briefing, but it wouldn’t be overlooked a second time. An unsmiling DCI Anderson had made that quite clear.

  She pushed open the door of DI Ethan Cole’s office, attracted like a moth to the soft glow of his lamp. The rest of Operation Moonlight had finished for the day, and with no late shift to replace them, the office was deserted. She found him slumped over his desk, softly snoring into his folded arms. Jennifer gave his shoulder a gentle shake, and bleary eyed, he lifted his head.

  ‘What time is it?’ He said, rubbing his face.

  ‘Gone ten. Don’t tell me you’ve been here all day?’

  ‘Um, yeah,’ he said, smothering a yawn. ‘Have you been down the farm all this time?’

  ‘No,’ Jennifer said, a bemused look on her face. ‘I left at nine. I couldn’t settle at home so I thought I’d come in for an hour, see if I can unearth any clues.’

  Ethan cast an eye over her jeans and sweater and smiled. ‘I guess I should have worked that out for myself. Have you had any luck?’

  ‘I’ve been making enquiries with the company that carried out the survey on the house and land. The team have already been on it, but I want to check that nothing’s been left out.’ Jennifer looked over at the coffee machine, and was disappointed to see the jug was empty. The office was chilly in the evening, another result of recent cutbacks.

  ‘No secret wall panels or hidden tunnels we haven’t searched?’ Ethan said, shutting down his computer. ‘I take it you were a fan of the Famous Five books, growing up?’

  ‘More like Scooby Doo,’ Jennifer said. ‘Although I wouldn’t have thought you knew who the Famous Five were.’

  Ethan flashed a smile. ‘It was something Zoe said. I had to Google it to see what she meant. In the US we had the Hardy Boys, made of much sterner stuff.’

  ‘Well, we could do with them now. I’ve got a bad feeling about this case,’ Jennifer said, her smile fading. Who was she to laugh and joke when a little girl was missing from her bed? She had spent her day making enquiries, liaising with the family, fulfilling tasks and chasing up phone calls, but she still felt no further on.

  ‘Come with me,’ Ethan said, rising from his chair. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  Jennifer followed him out of the office, mildly curious.

  ‘I’ve managed to secure a room for our investigations. Given the Operation Moonlight slant on things, I thought we’d benefit from having our own separate briefing room.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Jennifer said as she followed Ethan down the corridor. The only difference between their investigation and DCI Anderson’s was that theirs would also take into consideration any possible supernatural element. Jennifer blushed as she realised which room he was pointing out. The PIRS room, where witnesses used to be taken to ID photos of suspects; the same room where they’d had a drunken fumble at the Christmas party last year. As Ethan shoved his key in the lock, he paused, gave her an awkward smile, then pushed the door open.

  Jennifer’s embarrassment was forgotten as she took in the contents of the narrow room. A whiteboard had been attached to the wall, and was filled with a timeline of events, beginning from the first report. Images of family, friends and relatives of Abigail were pinned to the wall on the other side. On the table were photocopies of the investigation to date, as well as history of the area and a list of items seized.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Jennifer said, peering at the timeline. ‘When did you do this?’

  ‘I started after briefing with DCI Anderson. It didn’t feel right, you know? Going home to my nice warm bed when that little girl was still out there somewhere.’

  Jennifer nodded. It was an insight into Ethan she hadn’t seen before.

  ‘You need to add another person to the wall,’ Jennifer said, pointing to the sea of faces. ‘Karen Corbett. She’s been spending time at the house.’

  ‘As in Karen Corbett of Lexton CID?’ Ethan said. ‘I knew she was helping the family, but so are a lot of police officers.’

  Jennifer had watched her with interest when the group of searchers returned to the farm. ‘She seems very close to Nick. She has a brother too, Matt, who’s a few years younger than Nick. Apparently, they socialise sometimes, all three of them. I just find her a bit . . . clingy.’

  ‘Right,’ Ethan said, his hands on his hips. ‘I’ll see that they’re added. Anyone else?’

  ‘Well, Joanna had a sister but she committed suicide last year. Jumped in front of a train,’ Jennifer said. ‘Whereas Nick’s sister . . .’

  ‘Is homeless and has a record as long as your arm,’ Ethan said, finishing her sentence. ‘It’s hardly any wonder he doesn’t mention her.’

  ‘They’ve not spoken in years,’ Jennifer said. ‘I’m hoping she doesn’t make an appearance at the farm.’

  ‘Quite the troubled family.’ Ethan patted his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘Still, we’re not here to pass judgement. Anyone else missing from the board?’

  ‘No, you’ve got everyone here. He’s a bit odd.’ She pointed to the picture of Charles Radcliffe. ‘I earwigged him having a conversation with Nick earlier. He’s quite well spoken for a handyman, and judging by his accent, he’s not a local either.’

  ‘He’s already on the radar,’ Ethan said. He didn’t need to elaborate. Anyone who had attended the farm in the last couple of weeks would be under scrutiny.

  Jennifer frowned as realisation dawned. ‘All these faces . . . this is more than a missing child investigation. Do you know something I don’t?’

  Ethan pointed to the evidence picture of Abigail’s broken glasses. ‘Finding them was enough to set alarm bells ringing. That, and the fact that she’s not the type to wander off. If she’s not discovered soon, this will be elevated into a murder inquiry.’

  Chapter Nine

  Diary Entry

  Our story has spread and is bringing with it a wave of hatred and finger pointing. How I wish I could meet with the online trolls who make it their business to despise people they know nothing about. They are ignorant of real hatred, real pain. To them, this is just entertainment. I wanted to lash out today. I wanted to cut, stab, and pierce until my boiling rage subsided. For a few brief seconds, I caressed a carving knife in the kitchen. Gliding my fingers along its sharp edges, I dreamt of the possibilities. The next person . . . I thought. The next person that says another word to me will feel its force. But the fantasy was quickly forgotten when the detective walked in, and I reluctantly slid my hand from the cutlery drawer, keeping a lid on my emotions long enough to leave the room.

  At what point in my development was I marked out as different from everyone else? Was it from birth? My childhood? And did my family ever notice? We would have these stupid dinnertime discussions about how our day went. On the bad days my words just wouldn’t come. My throat felt too tight to swallow, as I fought to dam the tears. Some days I chewed the same mouthful of food, over and over, hoping my mother would get bored and stop asking. School was no better. The older kids noticed my misery, and when nobody else was looking, they pushed me around.

  While the other children had school dinners, I tucked into my lunch, packed in an old Quality Street tin. Food became my comfort. My only friend.

  My tormentors were experts in sneaking up behind me. I never felt the hands on my back until it was too late, and one day my face made contact with the concrete as I landed on all-fours. A string of blood-tinged spit dribbled from my mouth, and my right knee took the brunt of the fall. I sat back in utter shock as they danced around me, their chants hurting more than the pain in my knee. Loser, loser, they mocked, making ‘L’ signs with their fingers against their foreheads. The rest of my lunch ended up in my hair, and smeared in my face. When they were done, they left me there, my loosened tooth producing a dull throbbing pain, my right knee feeling as if it was on fire.

  My injuries provided a welcome distraction. When the spit balls landed in my hair during class, I’d put my hand under the table and feel my scab. Its bumps and ridges brought me comfort, as my body fought to heal itself. But I didn’t want it to heal too soon. Picking the crust gave me something to focus on, and silenced the chants in my head. Sometimes I would sit in my room as I picked, watching the beads of blood form, the sharp sting providing release. That day I found a new ally in pain.

  Chapter Ten

  A cold streak of moonlight flooded through the blinds, casting the kitchen in a monochrome hue. Insomnia crawled over Nick like a nest of spiders, slowing his thoughts and driving his body into a jerky autopilot. He pulled open the cupboard door and closed it again. He wasn’t even hungry. It was two in the morning, and he needed sleep, not food. But sleep was a memory, and the best he could hope for these days was catching an hour or two before dawn. He bumped against the chair, drunk with fatigue. It was nights like this that he could actually feel the weight of his skull.

  No sleep for the wicked, he thought, pulling up a chair. He rested his cheek against the cool plastic table cloth, and the faint aroma of bleach and lemons rose up to greet him. He thought of Fiona, keeping house while the rest of them fell apart. He allowed her to linger in his mind, wondering what she would say if she could see him now. He poked the doily with his index finger. Joanna had bought them when they first moved in, her head full of plans of restoring the farm to its natural beauty. As always, he had abandoned rational thinking and allowed himself to be swept up in her enthusiasm. But now it was difficult to see a way back to normality. Since moving to the farm he had not just lost his daughter, but his wife too. Although there in body, the fun-loving, impetuous woman he had fallen in love with was somewhere out of reach. Even Olivia walked around the house in a daze. Poor little Olly, too grieved to speak since her sister’s disappearance. What had she done to deserve this? What had Abigail? Hot tears threatened to spill, and he swallowed back the pain. A hard lump passed down his throat, and he wondered how mental anguish could be manifested as something so real. Night-time was the worst, when he was left alone with his thoughts. But his suffering had begun long before Abigail disappeared. Abigail . . . His heart ached for his little girl, and the loss of his family drove like a blade through his heart. His head jerked up as the creak of a timber echoed overhead. If only they hadn’t come to this godforsaken place.