And what possible reason could two women, both of whom knew me, have for taking my daughter?
After working through a hundred scenarios and what-ifs in my head during the short bus journey, it is all so unexpectedly simple.
I knock on the door of the house and Harriet Watson answers.
I barely recognise her. She doesn’t stand but stoops, bent over like the letter C, her shoulders rounded, as if something on the inside has pulled tighter and tighter until she has given in.
Her brown, curly hair has turned white. She still wears spectacles but seems almost blind, peering closely in order to see my features.
‘Toni?’ she whispers.
I don’t answer and she stands aside, watching me, in awe that I am actually here, in front of her, after all this time.
When I get inside the house, I screw up my nose. The air is fetid.
‘It’s the drains,’ she says slowly. ‘I’m used to it now.’
Nobody could get used to that smell, it’s impossible. She must have dead rats blocking the sewers, waste must be backing up. It can’t be healthy, breathing it in, but that’s the least of my concerns. I’m certainly not here to advise her on hygiene.
‘Please, come through,’ she says, like I’ve arrived for a tea party.
We move into the lounge. The room is dark and smells fusty. The carpet looks as if it hasn’t been vacuumed for months.
She offers me tea and I decline.
‘I came to tell you that I know,’ I say, watching her. ‘I know everything.’
‘You know everything about what, Toni?’
‘I know you helped Joanne Deacon. You helped her take Evie away from me.’
‘I – I didn’t know who she was,’ she stammers. ‘Until I saw the newspaper, I didn’t know she’d lied to me all that time. She asked me lots of questions, but I swear, I didn’t know the reason why.’
‘I just want to know where she is. Harriet, where is Evie?’
‘You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I didn’t help her take Evie, I just told her things, provided answers to questions she asked.’
‘Questions like what?’
‘I can’t remember. I’m so sorry about what happened but I didn’t do anything on purpose. I want to be your friend, I want your forgiveness.’
She’s babbling, confused. Her eyes dart around as she speaks to me and she keeps looking at the ceiling. It’s unnerving, but I have to remind myself I am here to find Evie and that I have to play a clever game.
And I have to remember that Harriet Watson has managed to fool the police once before. The worst thing I can do is underestimate her.
‘Could I use your bathroom?’ I say, standing up.
She jumps out of her own seat. ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t because of the drains, you see.’
‘Is it OK if I just get a glass of water, then?’ I change tack.
‘Of course, I’ll get you one.’
I follow her into the kitchen. We pass the steep, dark stairs on the right and I swear the smell is worse. I hold a tissue up to my face.
The kitchen is tidy but old and the cupboards are falling to pieces. There is a faint smell of damp. She runs the tap and fills a glass. While her back is turned, I slip a key that is hanging from a hook by the table into my pocket. It looks like a back-door key.
She turns and hands me the glass.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Toni, I am. I don’t know—’
I don’t answer, I just walk out of the kitchen. She rushes in front of me, shepherding me past the stinking stairs.
‘Do you think we could talk?’ she says, her eyes glistening. ‘I’m so sorry for everything. I liked Evie, she was my favourite.’
I look at her and I think about the kitchen knife I slipped into my bag as insurance. But it’s too soon. If I find out the worst about Evie, then someone is going to pay. I don’t care what they do to me after that, I’ll only want to die myself if I find out she’s gone.
The only thing keeping me going is the feeling I am getting closer to finding Evie. The police seem to be retracing their steps, regurgitating old investigations that haven’t led anywhere.
But maybe, just maybe, a different tack could work . . .
‘I’ll give you some time to think about things, write down what Joanne Deacon asked you. Try to remember everything you can. And I’ll be back tomorrow evening to talk. It’s the only way we can ever become friends again.’
‘Thank you, Toni,’ she says in the horribly vacant manner she now has. ‘I will have a good think.’
I leave the house and walk up the street. When she can no longer see me from the window, I stand for a moment, leaning on a gate for support, gasping in fresh air.
She’s hiding something.
Something terrible has happened in that house and I am going to find out what.
72
Present Day
Toni
The next morning, I am up early, before Mum is even downstairs. Overnight, I’d been thinking about that smell in Harriet Watson’s house. What if it turned out to be . . . I can’t even think the words. Would I be strong enough to face the worst?
I close my eyes against the horror of my wild imagination.
I ring DI Manvers. To my surprise he picks up right away. I quickly tell him about visiting Harriet Watson and about the smell.
‘Toni, please, I need you to listen to me very carefully,’ he says firmly. ‘Leave it to us. Do you understand me?’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’ My stomach twists. ‘You haven’t done anything to find Evie for the last three years.’
It was unfair, I know that.
‘We’re doing everything we can, Toni,’ he says. ‘I promise you.’
‘Like what?’
‘I can’t divulge every single action, but I will let you know if our lines of inquiry lead to new information.’
That stupid fucking jargon again.
‘Is Harriet Watson a suspect?’
‘Again, I’m not able to say, Toni. I’ll pop over and see you tomorrow. How’s that?’
I put the phone down without answering. He’s taking me for a fool; underneath, he blames me, just like the media. They’ll never find Evie, they’re moving too slowly and they think she’s already dead.
I’m not going to wait for them to help me anymore. From this moment forward, I will only rely on my own gut instincts.
‘What are you playing at?’ Mum demands when she comes downstairs. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about, Mum.’
I feel energised for the first time in years. I feel close . . . close to finding out the truth about Evie. Good or bad, I have to know.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I am waiting at the end of Harriet Watson’s street, the opposite end to the bus stop. At nine o’clock, she comes out of her gate and walks down to the bottom end of the road.
I don’t wait until she’s out of sight, I don’t have time. Evie could be upstairs, being held prisoner in that house – or, judging by that smell, even worse.
The police haven’t been round here in years. They’d believed all the lies Harriet had fed them, dismissed her as some kind of harmless loon.
I hurry through the gate and walk quickly around to the back of the house. There’s quite a large garden at the back and the house itself is tall – three stories high. I slip the key I took yesterday into the back door. The lock is greased and turns easily. I open the door and step inside the kitchen.
I gag when I reach the stairs and get the first strong waft of the smell, but I have one of Mum’s scented hankies in my hand and I hold it up to my nose and breathe through my mouth. I climb the stairs up to the second floor. The smell grows stronger.
I take a quick look in the two bedrooms. The bed is unmade in the double room overlooking the road, obviously where Harriet slept last night. The other bedroom is unused; the bed has a fitted sheet on it but no quilt.
I come out of the second bedroom and look at the second set of steep stairs, which lead up to the third floor.
I press the hankie closer to my nostrils and climb the stairs quickly.
There is a small bookcase on the square landing at the top and just one other door. I try the handle and find it is locked.