‘They’re lovely scones, aren’t they?’ Joanna said. ‘Even nicer than Fiona’s.’

  ‘Don’t let Fiona hear you say that,’ Jennifer smiled. ‘Do you bake at all?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not allowed,’ Joanna said, blushing as soon as the words had left her mouth. ‘I . . . I mean, I don’t need to, not with Fiona on the payroll.’

  ‘Joanna, may I be frank with you?’

  Joanna sighed, her eyes never leaving her daughter. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ve never once asked me about the investigation into Abigail’s disappearance. Is it because it’s too painful to think about?’

  Joanna shrugged, toying with a length of her hair, twirling the blonde strands around her finger.

  But Jennifer was not ready to give up yet. ‘Some people deal with stress by keeping it pushed down. You could call it a coping mechanism.’ Jennifer pressed down on the loose crumbs of scone with the pads of her fingers and placed them on the saucer. ‘I think it’s a perfectly understandable way of dealing with things. I’ve done it myself.’

  ‘I wish Nick did,’ Joanna said. ‘He knew what I was like when he met me, so why should I be any different now?’ She looked at Jennifer, a wealth of longing behind her cool eyes. ‘But how can I change? It’s just the way I am.’

  She finished the sentence with her usual smile, and Jennifer understood. She thought of her own past, the childhood she repressed for so many years.

  ‘I don’t get why you were so flippant in the interview, though. Why would you act like Abigail doesn’t matter, when inside you’re falling apart?’

  Joanna didn’t reply straight away. She returned her gaze to Olivia, watching as she groomed the pony’s mane. Jennifer had given up hope for an answer when Joanna eventually replied.

  ‘It’s hard to explain, but . . . sometimes I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth.’

  Jennifer nodded, allowing the silence to fall between them as she composed her words.

  ‘Sometimes people say things they don’t really mean. It’s like they want to be punished, but they don’t know why,’ she said, feeling more like a therapist than a police officer.

  Joanna rubbed her wrists, as if she was searching for something that was no longer there. ‘Oh, listen to me, talking about myself. It’s nothing really, I’m fine.’

  ‘But you’re not fine, are you, Joanna? Have you thought about getting help?’

  A pained expression crossed Joanna’s face, as if she had sat on something dirty, and she jumped up from the chair, clapping her hands together. ‘Olivia, are you all done now? We’d better get home. Daddy will be wondering where we’ve got to.’

  Jennifer bit back her frustration. Nick was well aware of where they were, and had told them to take their time. Joanna turned to face her. ‘Oh, and thank you. You didn’t have to do this. I feel like I’m getting my little girl back.’

  But what about your other daughter? Jennifer thought, as she nodded in response. She swallowed back the words, too judgemental to say aloud. Nick’s aggression towards his wife was inexcusable, but she could see how Joanna’s lack of sensitivity would ignite the flame. Why did she use memory repression as a coping mechanism? That, paired with the possibility she was punishing herself, could suggest there was something very wrong. It would take time to find answers, and time was a luxury they could ill afford.

  * * *

  Olivia beamed as her mother recounted the arrangements she had made for borrowing the pony. It was a one-way discussion, but the journey home was filled with hope: Olivia’s message was a breakthrough, and Jennifer clung on to the belief that there would be more to come.

  She drove on autopilot down the pot-holed country lane, inhaling the sweet smell of the rapeseed as it drifted through the car window. The fields lit up the landscape in patches of vibrant yellow, but their beauty was lost on the occupants of the car. Jennifer’s mind was crowded with thoughts. The fact that tomorrow would be the second day following Abigail’s disappearance weighed heavy, and even the farmhouse seemed to have slumped since she last left it. Olivia’s stolen whispers replayed in her mind. Somebody’s at the other end, but I . . . I don’t want to go with them, I’m scared. Where could Abigail be? Sue had reported footsteps on the landing and a smashed light bulb. She had heard the tray hit the floor. Was the spirit of Abigail making her presence known? Or was this activity caused by human hands? The spirits invading the home carried a strong negative energy, amplifying the family’s discord. It seemed likely that they were at the root of the activity. Her email to Zoe was yet to be answered, as her colleague dug deeper into the history of the house.

  Sinister intentions appeared far from Joanna’s mind as she knocked on the door, and breezily called that she was home.

  ‘Don’t you have a key to the front door?’ Jennifer said, scraping the mud from her shoes.

  Joanna shrugged, evading the question as she slipped past Fiona, who allowed them inside. Nick was slouched on the leather sofa, too exhausted to respond. His boots are wet with mud, and his hands scratched from searching thickets. The group of volunteers was growing by the day, meeting in Haven to search woodlands, sheds, crops, ditches and dykes. It was good to get the search underway while hope was still alive, but well-meaning locals were trampling all over what could be valuable evidence. Spent cigarette butts thrown in the woods. Discarded chewing gum wrappers. All transient evidence. Its worth minimal unless found on the body. The body. Jennifer caught her thoughts. She was imagining Abigail as deceased. The words that had escaped Olivia’s lips were similar to the ones she had heard so many times in the still of the night, when the whispers of the dead were at their strongest; spirits trapped in a cold, dark place, wanting to come home. Tortured souls looking for answers that weren’t hers to give. She squirted alcohol gel on her hands, the scent a soothing balm as old anxieties fought to rise within her. She wanted to go home, to the clean, cool worktops of her kitchen and the spotless floors. Where everything was level, organised and regimented.

  * * *

  Fiona placed a tray of salad sandwiches and a pot of tea in front of them, urging Nick to eat.

  He nodded his thanks, brightening only when Olivia bounced over to the sofa, her eyes bright with a sparkle that had been absent far too long. His eyebrows shot up as she giggled, and Jennifer warmed to the sound. It was a beautiful song after what felt like a lifetime of silence.

  ‘I hear we’re bringing home a pony,’ Nick said, washing down the remnants of his sandwich with a mouthful of tea from a fat blue mug. Olivia nodded fitfully, dancing on her toes, barely able to contain her excitement.

  ‘Be a good girl and we’ll soon have him here,’ Joanna said, leaving Olivia with her father.

  Jennifer turned to follow the women back out to the kitchen, feeling like an intruder.

  Olivia planted a kiss on her father’s stubbled cheek. Almost as an afterthought, she leaned forward, her whisper just within Jennifer’s earshot. ‘I’ll be a good girl, Daddy. I promise I won’t tell.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Are you sure that’s okay?’ Will said, refilling Jennifer’s glass as she ate the reheated food. ‘I can make you something else if you like.’

  Jennifer wound the pasta around her fork. ‘It’s delicious. I’m just sorry I’m late, especially after you went to all this trouble.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Will said, smiling. ‘A spag bol and a bottle of plonk is hardly going to trouble.’

  It was a novelty to be met with such understanding. But then Will was the first police officer she had dated. Well, apart from Ethan. But a quick fumble at the Christmas party was hardly what you would call dating. Being in a relationship with Will was the best thing that had ever happened to her. While past boyfriends complained about her inability to finish work on time, Will accepted it with calm understanding. She knocked back her wine, her eyes drawn to the defined chest muscles under his sweater. Her day had been stressful to say the least, with no real leads. It was heading towards a murder inquiry at breakneck speed. All they needed was a body . . .

  A myriad of thoughts demanded her attention, and she silenced them without guilt. She needed this. She craved intimacy with Will, absorbing his affection instead of the anger, frustration and fear which had encompassed her over the last few days. Just a little while, she promised herself, then she would think about work.

  But peace did not come quickly. Will’s phone constantly buzzed with texts from Zoe. There was a rumour that more people would be joining the team, and Jennifer was beginning to feel more like an outsider with each day that passed. Will turned off his phone and settled back into the sofa.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, with an apologetic grin. ‘I think she’s a bit lonely. She was asking if we could go out for a drink tonight.’

  Jennifer stifled a yawn. ‘I’m too tired. How’s it been, working with her?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say. We’re frontline detectives on Op Moonlight, you know, and seeing as how you’re just a lowly FLO . . .’

  Jennifer moved in close and blew in his ear as she snaked her hand against the ridge of his trousers. His stomach tightened as her fingers found his skin, and she teased him by running her nail inside the waistband of his boxer shorts. ‘Oh, but I have ways of making you talk,’ she said huskily.

  Will groaned, wrapping his hands around her waist as she sat astride him. ‘In that case, I’m ready for my interrogation.’

  * * *

  Intimacy followed by a hot bath was all she needed to feel human again. Satiated, she lay back in Will’s arms, allowing thoughts of work to return.

  ‘So how are you getting on with the case?’ he said, kissing the side of her head as she lay back on his chest. Her hair was damp as from the water, and he tucked a strand behind her ear. Steam rose around them, and the gentle flicker of candlelight reflected against the bathroom window.

  ‘We don’t have to talk work,’ Jennifer whispered as she dipped her chin into the water, trying to push back the nagging questions demanding an audience.

  ‘I’m interested. A different perspective might help.’

  Jennifer sighed. There was no getting away from it. She was doubtful other boyfriends would be as accommodating, although she would never have been able to speak to them about cases anyway. Keeping it to herself had made it all the harder. Not that they had understood any of that. She filled Will in on the case to date, bringing him up to Olivia’s behaviour around her father.

  ‘I took the opportunity to question Olivia again,’ Jennifer said. ‘I heard her whisper something to her dad, about keeping a secret. But she’s been mute ever since, and somewhat spooked. I didn’t want to push things too far.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s abusing her, do you?’

  Jennifer shivered as their bathwater began to lose its heat. The words sounded ugly as they hung in the air.

  ‘I asked if her mummy or daddy had hurt her, or made her do anything she didn’t want to do,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘No. Well, at least she shook her head, which implied no. I watched her face closely for a reaction. I couldn’t see anything which would suggest that they were abusing her.’

  ‘Best you document it just the same,’ Will said, handing her his bathrobe as he stepped out of the water. ‘Here. I’ll make you a coffee, get you warmed up.’

  Will wrapped a thick white towel around his waist and rough-dried his hair. Jennifer admired the contours of his body, and looked forward to the rest of their night together. A night in his arms was long overdue.

  ‘Want to know what I think?’ Will said, as Jennifer joined him in the living room. She had just finished cleaning the bath, and was now eyeing the dishes piled up in the sink.

  ‘Yes,’ Jennifer said, taking the coffee from his outstretched hand.

  ‘Olivia’s keeping a secret, and she’s too scared to tell you what it is. It might not be related to her sister, but it seems too much of a coincidence that all this is happening around the time of Abigail’s disappearance. I think she knows what’s happened to her sister, but it’s too horrific a prospect for her young mind to contemplate.’

  He closed his eyes briefly as he took a sip from his mug, then placed it on the newly purchased coasters now gracing the coffee table.

  ‘The bulbs blowing, things being thrown, that’s all coming from Olivia. Her emotions are so pent up, she’s making things happen, whether she knows it or not. She needs a child psychiatrist, to help her work through her issues.’

  ‘I’ve tried. They won’t allow it.’

  ‘Who won’t?’ Will asked, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘Her mother. Nick is all for it, but Joanna’s flatly refused.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Will said. ‘I expected you to say her father. I thought Joanna was withdrawn.’

  ‘She is. That’s what makes it so strange. It’s the only thing she’s insistent on.’

  ‘Have you asked why?’

  ‘She’s not given a proper reason. If any child needs help, it’s Olivia. I hope we find Abigail soon, so they can get on with their lives,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Do they think she’s still alive?’

  ‘They’re clinging on to hope. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Because the alternative . . .’

  Her words trailed away. Jennifer placed her cup beside Will’s, turning them until the handles faced the same way. Will rubbed her back, and she lay back into the crook of his arm. Will had known her long enough to notice her signals, and after some comforting murmurs he pointed the remote control at the television and selected an inoffensive movie; something to take their mind off work, at least until they got lost in each other again.

  But Jennifer didn’t see the movie. Instead, she replayed snatches of her visit to Blackwater farm, the bits that had been bothering her long enough not to evaporate into the ether. Natives of Haven, both Nick and Joanna had moved away a couple of times, only to return. They used to live in London, while Nick commuted to work in Lexton every day. Moving to their townhouse in Haven had made sense for them both. She had a good job, was financially secure. But everything had changed dramatically in the last few months. They had sold up to live in a creepy derelict farm and Joanna had given up her job to work online, going from mixing with lots of people to being a recluse. Her friends were all virtual, and quick enough to desert her when the allegations came to light. Jennifer thought of the farmhouse, hollow and empty, crawling with a negative energy that would send most people packing. But there was something niggling at the back of her brain. When they came back after their trip to see aunt Laura, Joanna had been locked out. Why didn’t she have a key to her own house? The doors were old and battered, but the inner locks had all been filled in. The only door that had a key was the bathroom, and she had never seen Joanna use it. Jennifer remembered Joanna’s throwaway comment about not being allowed to bake, and the embarrassment that followed. There was something about the way Joanna spoke, that made her think she wasn’t allowed to cook either, or even to touch a knife. But she wasn’t imprisoned in the house. Joanna was able to go to the local TV studios after all. It was as if there was an unseen rule. It was one Jennifer would be keeping a very close eye on.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two Days Gone

  It was a welcome relief to return to the CID office a couple of hours early to catch up with outstanding work. Two suspects for a previous case had failed to answer their bail, and Jennifer now had the pleasure of updating them on the police national computer system as ‘Wanted’. But mundane tasks like updating the PNC didn’t bother Jennifer, because as stressed as her job got, it was nothing compared to the repressive mood pervading the Duncan household.

  She pored over an email from her colleague Zoe. Her digging on Blackwater farm had produced some interesting insights about its history. In the 1880s the building had been used as what could only be described as a workhouse. Orphans and unwanted children had tilled the land until an epidemic of scarlet fever wiped them out one by one. Makeshift graves were discovered close to the house, and the remains removed to Haven children’s cemetery, where they were given a proper funeral. Several children were never traced. Jennifer thought of the paraffin lamp, and the sorrow emanating from the woman in the long black petticoat as she gently nursed the sick. Enough sorrow to keep her walking the corridors, tending to her charges long after her death. For a few brief seconds, she had shown Jennifer her world. She only hoped that, having done so, the woman would be able to move on.

  Jennifer scrolled down, her heart skipping a beat as she digested the second paragraph. Zoe stated that in the 1960s, teenage squatters had regularly frequented the house. That in itself was not unusual, but the email contained pictures of the interior after their departure. Pentagrams were crudely daubed on the floors, the carcass of a dead goat was found in the basement, and dozens of half melted candles lay throughout. Jennifer’s stomach heaved as she gazed at the image of an abandoned pot in the filthy living room, animal bones sucked dry, strewn beside a mattress on the floor. Had the teenagers invoked something evil? According to Zoe’s research, the farm had been plagued with misfortune ever since. Suicides, failing crops and dying animals followed over the years and, given recent events, the spate of bad luck wasn’t changing any time soon.

  She clicked off the email, as much to dismiss the thoughts of her earlier encounters as anything else. To allow them to linger would be to give them power, and she had come far too close to such entities in the past to want to go there again.

  She studied copies of the Duncan family’s statements for the third time, trying to glean some clues. Nick had stated that he was at home, clearing rubbish from the outbuildings and throwing it in the trailer on the back of his tractor for burning. At least he hadn’t lit the fire. The thought of going through the charred timbers in search of a body was too grizzly to imagine.