Safe in the knowledge that Jade would turn off the lights – he’d already made sure that everything was locked up, twice – Mark slipped carefully in beside Mel.
She didn’t stir. Mark searched her face again, before turning off the bedside lamp. Not a flicker of the eyelashes. Slow, sensual lovemaking definitely wasn’t on the agenda tonight. She was dead to the world. Ah well, there was always tomorrow. Mark pulled the duvet up over her shoulders and dropped a soft kiss on her cheek, at which Mel finally did stir, wriggling onto her side and into their usual sleeping position, her back facing him, her bottom tucked well into him. Smiling, Mark wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.
He was drifting in and out of sleep himself – fitful sleep, broken by stark images of the missing little girl, curled into a ball in some cold dark place. And other images: another time, another place, another child, curled up, eyes milk-white and empty, screaming in terror from the depths of the smoke-blackened room he couldn’t reach. He desperately tried to wrench himself from the dream. Her heartbreaking sobs were growing louder… too loud. Too much to bear.
Rolling over, Mark pulled himself upright. Blinking hard against the dark, sweat pooling at the base of his neck, he realised the cries were real. Here. Not inside his head.
Evie?
Scrambling out of bed, Mark checked the bedside clock and realised it was nowhere near feed time. Feeling panicked, and not sure why, he headed for the landing. He was outside the nursery door when he heard the soft lullaby: ‘Hush, little baby…’
Jade. Mark felt his heart rate return to somewhere near normal. She’d obviously beaten him to it. A godsend. Definitely. Mark sighed, relieved, and then, remembering he was stark naked, he about-faced and headed back to the bedroom, where he found Mel still sleeping, amazingly. Normally she would wake if Evie or Poppy so much as sneezed.
Eighteen
MARK
Two weeks she’d been missing. Fourteen days and cold nights and they were still no nearer to finding her. Mark studied the latest photo of Daisy: a pretty, rosy-cheeked child, similar in colouring to Poppy, she didn’t look unhappy, scared or lonely. There were no shadows haunting her smile. She was just a normal, trusting little girl. A little girl whose innocence had probably been irretrievably broken. Swallowing back the bile in his throat, trying to dismiss the images that thought evoked, Mark dragged his hands through his hair. He didn’t know why, but he was sure she was alive. The pictures that flashed through his dreams every night, elusive and wispy at first, were now so clear he could almost reach out and touch her; her fear so tangible, he could feel it. He could even smell her surroundings: mildew, damp moss, leather. Definitely a property in the countryside somewhere, but it could be anywhere. Was he being fanciful? Some might call this a hunch. Mark worried it was just wishful thinking.
Feeling utterly jaded, he sat heavily back in his chair. So where did he go from here? Forensics had found other spatters of blood, but they were so small as to be insignificant, and possibly from the foot injury the parents had offered as explanation for the stain on the stairs. Whilst not ruling them out yet, the parents looked to have played no part in her disappearance.
Searches were continuing locally and nationally, but Mark was running out of ideas. Unable to ignore the nagging instinct that she was still alive, he’d taken it on himself to revisit some of the neighbouring properties. Hawthorn Farm, a mile or so from his own house, was on his agenda later. The owner, a recently bereaved widow, wouldn’t welcome another intrusion into her life, but he had to do something. She had enough on her plate with the farm up for sale and a son who was amiable enough but not the brightest tool in the box. He’d once been arrested, nine years ago, according to the details on file. The charge, indecent exposure, had been dropped when a local guy had marched his fifteen-year old daughter into the station. Turned out her and her mate had decided it would be a ‘laugh’ to remove ‘drippy Dylan’s’ clothes while he’d been skinny-dipping in the river. Dylan, sixteen years old at the time, had never lived it down. Kids could most definitely be cruel sometimes. Now living in one of the small cottages on the farm, he seemed harmless, with no other misdemeanours or mishaps on his record. Impressionable, gullible, but harmless. Still, though, Mark wanted to revisit the farm in the vain hope that something had been missed.
Sighing, he looked back to his computer. Rereading statements wasn’t likely to produce anything new, but he had to do something. Pulling up another file, Mark scrolled through it, reaching distractedly for his ringing mobile as he did.
‘Mark, hi, it’s me,’ Mel said, over the noise of Evie crying, which immediately made Mark tense up. Evie was now waking several times most nights and Mel seemed permanently on edge. But then… Mark tried to suppress it, but the thought popped into his head anyway… Mel hadn’t actually had to see to her at night over the two weeks since Jade had moved in. Jade’s antennae always seemed to be on red alert. He’d met her on the landing a couple of times over the last week (he’d taken to wearing boxers at night now, just in case).
‘Did you remember to book the table for tonight?’ Mel asked him.
Crap. ‘No, sorry.’ Mark squeezed his eyes closed, realising he’d forgotten. They were supposed to be going out with the Chandlers to celebrate Emily’s birthday, and it had completely slipped his mind. The broken nights, coupled with his increasing nightmares, were taking their toll on him too.
‘Oh Mark, honestly… I thought you’d done it days ago.’ Mel sounded utterly despairing.
‘I’ll do it now,’ Mark promised.
‘Forget it. I’ll do it,’ Mel said tetchily. ‘I doubt they’ll have a table now anyway.’
‘Mel, I’ll do it,’ Mark assured her, concerned by her obvious agitation. He’d been trying not to worry about it, putting Mel’s irritability down to stress, but, frankly, he was alarmed. Whether or not she was getting up in the night to see to Evie, she was exhausted. She looked exhausted. And where previously Mel would have been unfazed by something like a dripping tap – grabbing the tool box, in fact, and changing the washer herself – the one that was constantly dripping in the utility was driving her mad. Mark had put it on his weekend to-do list. It was no big deal – but to Mel it obviously was. She’d looked… edgy. It was the only way to describe it. It just wasn’t like her.
He was about to reassure her again that he would ring the restaurant and then call her straight back when Mel practically growled down the phone, ‘Oh for God’s sake, now the bloody fuse box has blown. We really need to spend some serious money on this house, Mark, or move.’ And with that, she ended the call.