I looked around the room in despair. The photo on the noticeboard of you and your dad caught my eye. We’d had such a giggle taking that. You had spent the morning in Decoy Wood, the small patch of Wildlife Trust land near the Daughtrey-Drews’ big house. You were a little late, so I had been in your bedroom, looking out for you and mucking about with a camera your dad had just bought. He’d got a brilliant bridge camera with 60x optical zoom on it so you could use it for taking nature pictures, and I was focusing on the Picky Person’s Pop In, a couple of doors down, impressed with the zoom function. Then I had spotted you, in such a hurry to get home that you bumped right into Alison Daughtrey-Drew as she came out of the shop.
The woman’s handbag had flown from her shoulder, spilling its contents as it dropped to the ground. You both scrambled to pick everything up. A packet of cigarettes, a phone, a clear plastic bag stuffed with pastel-coloured sweeties. A quick exchange of pleasantries and you had scurried on, the front door slamming seconds later. Telling me breathlessly about the things you had seen.
‘There were redwings and fieldfares, crows and starlings, as well as several robins. Not too bad a day. I lost track of time, though; sorry I’m a bit late.’
You had shrugged your coat off and hung it up. Kicked your shoes into the corner and chucked your bag on top of them, as usual, before flopping onto the sofa.
Usually nature-watching put you in a great mood, but that day you had seemed anxious. I had wondered, momentarily, if there had been more to the exchange with Alison than there had seemed. Perhaps she had been angry with you for knocking into her. But then your dad had showed you his new camera, and soon we’d all been laughing.
We were a happy family before this, weren’t we, Beth? Was this our fault? Were the papers right?
Screwing up the newspaper, I threw it in the bin.
‘Jacob, could we manage only on your wage? I don’t see how I can go back to work after this.’
He was the foreman of a factory that made all kinds of wooden furniture. It was handmade, good-quality stuff. His wage wasn’t too bad for the area, which was renowned for low pay.
‘Yeah, we’ll just tighten our belts. You want to call Finn now, or have a cup of tea and calm down a bit first?’
I loved that he didn’t even hesitate in his support.
‘Call first, then tea.’ Why should Finn be spared my fury? I didn’t get annoyed often, but when I did, the world needed to watch out.
*
‘You using piece of Fleet Street wannabe scum,’ I spat, the second Finn answered the phone. He spluttered, but I gave him no chance to reply, furious.
While I gave it to my now ex-boss with both barrels, Flo arrived.
‘I’m so sorry about the press leak,’ she told Jacob.
I stuffed a finger in my ear to block her out, and Finn took my moment of hesitation to speak.
‘I’m sorry you feel—’
‘How I feel?! Don’t give me that,’ I bellowed. ‘You can’t even say sorry properly, instead you do the “journalist apology” – can’t admit liability, eh? You shouldn’t be sorry about how I feel, Finn, you should be sorry that you betrayed me. We’ve worked together for seven bloody years!’
Flo’s arrival was distracting me from my telephone rant, so Jacob took her out of the way, leading her into the kitchen.
*
By the time I’d finished the call, she’d gone.
Jacob popped the promised cuppa in front of me, along with some custard creams.
‘To keep your strength up,’ he said.
Bless him, he still fretted about my birdlike eating. I munched on one to give him some peace of mind, while he filled me in on Flo’s promise of an internal inquiry into the leak to Finn.
‘No need to ask what you said to Finn,’ he added. ‘The whole of Fenmere heard you, I reckon. Did he say who’d given him the tip-off?’
‘No, the complete git. He gave me the spiel about how a journalist can’t reveal their sources. That’s when I told him to stick his job – although I think he’d probably guessed.’ I savagely bit into a custard cream. ‘Maybe this job thing is a godsend.’
Jacob cocked his head as he dipped his biscuit into his tea.
‘I’m going to be at the hospital at lot, and once Beth comes round we don’t know how long it will take to get her back to full strength. Without a job, I can concentrate on Beth, and we can bring her back that much faster. I can look after her here. Even…’
I trailed off, worried about voicing my fears. The thought had been tapping on my shoulder for a while now, though, begging to be articulated.
‘Even if it’s worst-case scenario stuff ? you know, she has to learn to walk, talk, eat, all over again ? it’ll be better to do that here than at a hospital, if possible.’
‘It’s not going to come to that,’ insisted Jacob.
‘But if it does, then I’m ready for it.’
I’d taught you all that once; I could do it again. A vivid memory flashed: of you as a toddler, wiggling your nappy-covered bottom in time to something playing on the radio. Bare feet slapping on the wooden floor as you discovered the joy of dancing for the first time. Your giggle had been musical.
It was hard to keep talking through the gathering tears. ‘Maybe I could research some homeschooling techniques too. Hopefully none of this will be necessary; Beth will come round, be fine and be out of hospital by, heck, Sunday.’
‘And back at school Monday,’ agreed Jacob.
‘Exactly! But this way, we’re prepared for every eventuality.’
As I wiped my face dry, we toasted our new-found positivity with tea.
Then I glanced at the clock, and couldn’t help thinking that this time exactly one week earlier we’d had no idea our lives were balanced on a cliff edge.
One week ago you had been at school, happy and healthy.
One week ago you had come home as usual, chatting about homework, rushing around, laughing.
Until you’d lied to us, and gone out for the night. Then everything had changed.
Why, Beth? Why?
Twenty-Four
It was inevitable that the police would trace the phone records eventually, but I felt confident they wouldn’t ever tie them to me. I’d covered my tracks too well, and destroyed my burner mobile as soon as it had served its purpose.
No, it wasn’t fear of discovery that was bothering me. It was that I was already starting to suffer withdrawal symptoms.
Like a drug addict, the high I experienced lessened each time the memory replayed in my mind. There simply wasn’t the same thrill any more at reliving the moment of attack. The huff of breath the girl gave as I smashed at her skull didn’t excite me; it was as dull as a pair of well-worn slippers. A crawling sensation under my skin made me so restless it couldn’t be ignored for much longer. I needed a fix.
But I couldn’t risk striking again. Not so soon. I would have to be patient, wait it out, plan things. It would happen again, though. Eventually. That thought was enough to ease the crawling skin for now, despite it being the equivalent of a junkie taking paracetamol.
One heroin hit was never enough, was it? And my particular drug was more addictive, more refined and harder to procure than heroin. Bloodshed was a drug for the elite, not the masses.
What I needed was a new supplier. And suddenly an idea leapt into my mind that made me chuckle out loud. A fresh person for me to target – or rather, an old one.
Twenty-Five