Her Deadly Secret
CHRIS CURRAN

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Chris Curran 2017

Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780008261320

Version 2019-01-18

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Exclusive extract of the latest psychological thriller by Chris Curran

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Chris Curran

About the Publisher

Dedication

This one is for Sue Curran and Jack Farmer, with love.

What would I do without you?

Chapter One

Joe

As the police car brought him home, Joe saw a crowd outside and the cameras started up again. He still had black spots in front of his eyes from the last lot.

It was nearly midsummer, so still daylight at seven in the evening, and coming through the estate he’d noticed how run-down the area looked and realized their own house must seem no better. He had been doing it up, hoping to sell and move somewhere nicer, but he’d been away a lot recently. So the paintwork was peeling on the old front door and the bricks he’d bought to rebuild a wall were piled under the window. Lit up by those harsh flashes, with the knot of people crowding round the gate, it looked not half-finished but neglected.

The kind of place where bad things happen.

He’d used the word exhausted before, coming home from a surveying job at the other end of the country, but this was different. His whole body ached with it. He’d spent two nights driving around Swindon and, when it became light, walking the streets. He’d scoured the parks, getting funny looks from joggers and women with pushchairs, aware he must look half-mad.

The way Hannah was going on didn’t help. She stayed in her dressing gown the whole time, lying on the bed, or sitting at the kitchen table. When he tried to hold her she kept herself stiff, arms by her sides. He talked and talked, telling her where he’d been and what he planned to do next. Instead of speaking she pushed plates of toast or sandwiches in front of him and left him to it. When he did crawl into bed with her for a few minutes she turned away or got up and went downstairs.

At first, the police didn’t seem to take Lily’s disappearance seriously. Hannah had rung him about half past six that night in a panic. Lily was never late back from school and none of her friends had seen her. He’d driven fast, and as soon as he’d got in, dialled 999, and a patrol car came round. But the two uniforms seemed to think it was normal for a 14-year-old to stay out late without letting anyone know. Said they’d ‘look into it’, whatever that meant.

On the third day, they came back; three of them this time. He recognized the black woman constable from that first night, even though she was no longer in uniform. The one in charge introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Philips, and explained that Loretta was now their Family Liaison Officer. The woman nodded at Joe, her expression telling him she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, and went upstairs to see Hannah.

Philips said they now had to treat ‘the disappearance’ very seriously. ‘The likelihood is that she’s gone off somewhere. Maybe something’s upset her or she thinks she’s in trouble, but we need to find her as soon as possible.’

They asked him lots of questions about Lily. How did she get on at school; did she have a boyfriend? He answered as best he could, but too often found himself saying stupid things like, ‘You’d better ask her mum about that.’ All he wanted was to get out again. To do something. Anything but sit here with them watching him. He knew he was fidgeting as he tried to hear the voices upstairs, anxious in case Hannah’s answers were different from his, but he couldn’t help it.

Philips suggested a TV appeal. ‘If there’s still no sign of her by then. I’ll be with you and I can help you with what to say.’

Of course he agreed, and they said Hannah should be there too. She wouldn’t have to speak if she was too upset. But when the policewoman came down she gave the inspector a look and said Hannah wouldn’t do it; nothing could persuade her.

He’d hated doing the appeal and now, as they got out of the car, Philips told him to ignore the reporters. It wasn’t easy with all the cameras and with microphones shoved in his face, one of them knocking against his mouth. Philips stood close to him, and the smell of his sickly aftershave, which had bothered Joe all evening, was very strong. He turned away, preferring the whiff of BO and damp cloth coming from the crowd.

‘Clear the way now. Let us through. Mr Marsden has nothing more to say.’ Philips pushed them both forward, and Joe took the chance to stab his elbow into the guy with the microphone.

The Family Liaison Officer, the one they were apparently meant to call Loretta, was with Hannah at the kitchen table. Hannah didn’t even look up let alone ask how it had gone. Why was she leaving it all to him? Couldn’t she see he needed her?

Philips said, ‘Excuse me, Joe,’ and fumbled in his pocket as his phone chirruped. He kept calling Joe by his first name, even though he hadn’t asked if that was OK and hadn’t offered his own. He turned away muttering into the phone, and Hannah was suddenly standing, brushing off Loretta’s hand and walking towards Joe.

He felt the tears he’d been holding back for so long shift, a lump of rock in his throat, and he moved forward wanting only to cry at last in the warmth of her arms.

But she was looking past him. And her face was terrible. And Joe saw Philips. Saw the tight line of his mouth, the slight shake of his head as he looked over Hannah’s head at the policewoman.

The world stopped. Something hammered in his ears. There was an agony in his throat, and the kitchen had turned into a shimmering photograph; a place he didn’t know.

And in front of him – Hannah. Pale mouth stretched wide with no sound. Hands in her hair, as if she wanted to tear it out by the roots.

He made himself move. Reach for her as she began a broken chant, ‘No, oh no, no, no.’ He pulled her into his arms. She clung to him, and he closed his eyes pressing his face into her hair. Her heart thumped hard against his chest, echoing the rhythm of his own. If they could stay like this, just the two of them, they could hold back the nightmare.

But then she pushed him away and, as he tried to touch her again, she beat at him, hitting his chest, his face, his eyes, her hands clenched into stones. He tried to speak but, as Philips dragged him back, Hannah shrieked so loudly Joe was sure the whole world could hear.

‘Don’t touch me, Joe. Don’t touch me. Keep away from me.’

Rosie

It didn’t help that it was Alice’s birthday today – what would have been Alice’s birthday. At ten o’clock Rosie switched to another news channel just in time to see the photo of the missing girl again. A slim face and light brown hair, held up at one side with a blue clip. She had already watched the whole of today’s appeal three times. And now there was a sentence of breaking news rolling along the bottom of the screen.

Body found in search for missing teenager.

The girl’s family must have heard already, and she could imagine all too easily what it would be like in that house now.

She wrapped the soft throw more tightly around her legs on the big sofa, curling her bare feet under her. It crossed her mind to put the central heating on or move to the kitchen. The sitting room, which had seemed so elegant when they bought the place, always felt cavernous when Oliver wasn’t at home; the windows too large even with the curtains closed. She wished they hadn’t positioned the sofa in the middle of the room near the fireplace and TV, where you had to look behind you to see the door and the hallway.

The kitchen was large too, and they’d extended it to make a dining area which was nearly all glass. She shivered at the thought of pulling the blinds in there, one by one, while the lights turned the garden into a black emptiness. She always had the feeling that someone was out there, staring in at her.

Here was the news conference again, coming from Swindon. She’d never been there, but thought it was in Wiltshire, about a hundred and fifty miles away from their home in Hastings. The policeman in charge was explaining they were seriously concerned about Lily, because she was only 14 and she wasn’t the kind of girl to go off without letting her parents know. Unusually, the mother was absent and the dad looked very lonely up there, flanked by the row of uniforms, a bank of microphones in front of his face.

He was coughing now, the father, as the police inspector said Mr Marsden had a message for his daughter and cameras clacked like a volley of gunshots in the man’s face.

‘Lily, love, if you can hear this we’re worried about you … sweetheart. So come home if you can. We won’t be cross with you if you’re in … I mean, if you’ve done something wrong.’ He stumbled to a halt, cleared his throat and glanced at the policeman, whose nod told him to go on. ‘Your mum’s beside herself with worry.’ He gulped at a glass of water. ‘We both are; so, please call us if you can. Just to say you’re all right.’

The father stopped, looked up then flinched back into himself as the cameras flashed. He turned to the policeman. ‘That’s all.’ Looking down, his face red and voice gruff, suggesting tears held back, he muttered to the table, ‘We love you, Lily.’

As the cameras clattered and flared at him again, Rosie wondered whether he knew that, if the body they’d found was his daughter’s, he would soon be the prime suspect.

‘Mummy, Muuum.’

The cries must have been going on for some time, and she bounded across the hallway, the parquet floor cool under her feet.

Fay’s room was warm, but she was sitting up in bed, eyes puffy with sleep and tears. ‘I had a dream and you didn’t come.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’ Rosie sat on the bed, holding her daughter and kissing her hair. It smelled musty with sleep.

She tucked Fay in and passed her a doll from the pile of toys at the end of the bed.

‘No, I want Doogie Dog, not that.’

Fay always reverted to the behaviour and toys of her babyhood after nightmares but, by morning, Rosie knew she would be an indomitable 6-going-on-15-year-old again. Now, with the green fleecy dog under her chin, she was nearly asleep, and Rosie sat watching her, filled with so much love she could barely breathe. She pulled a strand of pale hair away from Fay’s lips, but her daughter brushed sleepily at her hand, irritated by the touch.

After watching for a few minutes Rosie stood, holding the rejected doll. In the past year or so everything had had to be on Fay’s terms, and Rosie found it more and more difficult to deal with her. ‘Maybe she needs a brother or sister to show her she isn’t the centre of the world,’ Oliver had said a couple of times recently but Rosie wasn’t sure how serious he was.

And another baby wouldn’t change things. Fay was the centre of their world and always would be. No other child could take that special place: just as Rosie had never been able to replace her parents’ firstborn, Alice.

It was difficult to believe it had been fifteen years since Alice was killed. (Rosie always found it difficult to use the word murdered even in her thoughts.) Rosie had been 14 at the time, like the missing girl; Alice, two years older. At times, it seemed like yesterday. Yet so much had happened since then. Sometimes, she went whole days without thinking of her sister. Sometimes, she was even able to remember the good things. Their childhood together, before everything went wrong. Able to show Fay the pictures of Auntie Alice and tell her funny stories about those days. To think about how, when she was little, she had adored her big sister and longed for her love and approval. It was when she saw news of missing or murdered teenagers that it became impossible to forget what came later. And how it all ended.

The TV was still on in the living room and showing the father of the missing girl leaving the press conference. He looked nice enough: an ordinary dad, with a thatch of untidy brown hair streaked with a few strands of grey. His face was pleasant, the hint of stubble somehow making it more appealing, and when he looked up she saw eyes that might have been kind if they hadn’t been so haunted.

But then, Rosie knew only too well how easily eyes can lie.

Chapter Two

Joe

The thought that kept going around in Joe’s brain was that this didn’t happen to families like theirs. He knew that his little girl, his Lily, was gone. Murdered. He’d identified her body. But, no matter how many times he told himself it was true, his mind refused to understand.

Once or twice in the past, a past that seemed so remote he’d begun to think of it as before, he had asked himself how people coped in a situation like this. He’d imagined the parents would cling together, support each other.

But this was nothing like that.

Hannah was pumped so full of tranquilizers and sleeping pills, she was either a hump in the bed he dared not touch, or a ragged-haired zombie, smelling of coffee and sweat. When he tried to talk to her, suggested a drink, some food, or a warm bath, she looked right through him and turned to whisper something to that bloody Loretta – the FLO, as she called herself. Then Loretta would smile her fake smile, saying, oh so kindly, ‘Maybe just leave her for now, Joe,’ making him feel even more like a spare part.

And there was no peace, no quiet; no time to take in what had happened; to turn the nightmare into reality. Every day, and well into the evenings, there were people outside. Teenagers bringing flowers and even balloons. He watched from the window of the spare bedroom as the girls clutched each other and dabbed tears from under their eyes.

The phone rang constantly, and he thanked God for caller ID. He begged his mum to stay away for now, told her they were coping and there was nothing she could do. And he could tell she was relieved. She’d never really got on with Hannah, never accepted Lily as a proper granddaughter. His brother, Dave, sent texts and emails. Obviously, didn’t want to talk, but Joe couldn’t blame him – what could he say that would help?

The police asked to search the house and, of course, there was no question of refusing. The place was filled with them for hours. Watching them go through Lily’s room was the worst and, when Hannah saw them, she started up with that groaning again.

He didn’t even try to go to her this time. Let her precious Loretta deal with it. She took Hannah downstairs, made yet more coffee, and went through the photo albums with her again. It seemed to help Hannah, although how she could bear to look at them he didn’t understand.

He stood at the door of Lily’s room while they searched. They looked through her clothes, even in her pockets, took out the drawers, pulled back the covers on her bed. That was when he wanted to punch someone. To tell them to leave her alone.

At least they left it tidy and, when they’d gone, he went in and smoothed the wrinkles out of the duvet. Sat on the bed and picked up her pillow, holding it close. Then he remembered seeing someone do that in a film and almost laughed at himself for being so corny. And for a moment, the great chunk of something that had been hurting his chest all this time surged into his throat. But even as the tears came he stopped them, squeezing the pillow into a hard lump. If he let go he would lose control.

So he sat there crushing the pillow that still smelled of her and staring at nothing. All the time keeping out the image he must never let himself see again. Lily, as she was now.

They wouldn’t say much about how she died; only that she wasn’t raped – thank God. But he imagined all sorts, and even thinking about how the doctors must have pulled her about was horrible.

Loretta had been there, of course. Watching him when he identified the body. Noting down his reactions, no doubt. But he had simply looked at the face that was and wasn’t Lily. It certainly wasn’t his cheeky laughing girl who loved his special cheese on toast and was always trying different hair dos. He stood, staring, numb and yet aware of being watched. And suddenly, horrifically, he’d wanted to giggle. He’d fought to keep it down, gritted his teeth and pressed his lips together until he was able to look up and nod that, yes, this was his daughter.

As he put the pillow down, smoothing it carefully, he realized Loretta was watching him again, leaning on the wall outside the door. She laid a warm hand on his arm as he slid past, but said nothing. He didn’t speak either. If he did she would probably write it down in that fucking notebook of hers.

That was what made him so angry. He couldn’t even tell Hannah to be careful about what she said. She must think bloody Loretta was just there to help them. But she was police, the same as Philips and the rest, and she was watching them all the time. Reporting on everything.

He went into the spare room – the only place he could escape to. It was empty apart from a sofa bed, so the police hadn’t spent as long in there and it felt less contaminated somehow. The venetian blinds meant he could see the street without being seen.

After the first few nights the group of reporters and cameras had thinned out. Lily wasn’t top of the news bulletins anymore, and his mum said the papers had gone quiet too. More important things to focus on: celebrities and football.

Loretta was outside talking to a group of girls. The ones who seemed to have nothing better to do than hang around all day. Probably hoping they’d get their faces in the paper or even an interview on TV. As if none of this was real. As if Lily wasn’t lying back there in the morgue, cold and all alone. He told himself not to be mean: they were Lily’s friends. Trying to show they cared; trying to make sense of it.

Loretta

Right now, Loretta hated her job. She had trained as an FLO because she thought she was good with people, and it was always useful to have an extra qualification. Also, her kids were happier when she was out of uniform. What she hadn’t bargained for was the way, when you were working with a family, it set you apart. She had no reason to spend much time at the station. When she was there hardly anybody bothered to talk to her or ask her how it was going. They seemed to think she was onto a cushy number. ‘Sitting about drinking tea all day,’ was how she’d overheard that bitch Maggie describe it.

And this was her first murder as an FLO. It had come as a surprise when they’d found a body, because with a 14-year-old you expected the girl to come back, shamefaced, after a couple of days hiding out.

But there had been something wrong with the atmosphere inside that house from the start. The parents both seemed sure the worst had happened on the very first night. And the mother, Hannah, well, she was something else. Loretta knew she should feel more sorry for her – the poor woman had lost her only child for fuck’s sake – but it was difficult when she was so cut off. So cold.

At least she whispered the occasional word to Loretta. A lot more than the husband got. Hannah still blanked him completely, which was curious. The most likely explanation was always going to be that he had something to do with it, so she probably had good reason to reject him, but for now they had to keep him sweet. It stuck in Loretta’s throat to be pleasant when she let herself imagine the possible scenarios, but that was the job.

Hannah was asleep again – out of it with all the stuff the doc had given her. It was obvious Joe wasn’t going to be forthcoming either, and DCI Philips had suggested she try to talk to some of the kids hanging around outside, so she had the excuse she needed to get out for a bit.

As she closed the front door behind her silence fell. The kids lounging in small groups looked studiously away. She strolled out, mimicking their pretence of indifference. A lanky boy of thirteen or so in a school sweatshirt and grey trousers elbowed his smaller friend, who turned to stare at her. Then, very deliberately, the smaller boy placed a cigarette between his lips, head to one side, daring her to do something.

When she ignored them, and approached the three girls nearest the gate, the taller lad shouted, in a voice hoarse with puberty, ‘He’s too young to smoke, ya know, Miss. Tell him, Miss.’

An eruption of honking laughter and the two began punching each other, the smoker yelling in a still squeaky treble, ‘It’s constable, you dork, not Miss – she’s fuckin’ police and I’m brickin’ it. She’s gonna arrest me cos of you, you wanker.’

Loretta caught the eye of one of the girls who looked heavenwards and mouthed, ‘Idiots.’ The other two nodded, and she had her way in.

‘Well, that’s lads for you, isn’t it? Don’t mature until they’re forty or so. If then.’

‘Yeah, right.’ This from the blonde girl who’d spoken. She gave the boys a scornful look, shaking her head, and hooking one bare leg behind the other so that her short navy skirt stretched over plump thighs.

The other two stayed silent, looking at the boys with eyes that fired shards of ice before turning the same cold gazes onto Loretta. She walked away and began reading the cards and bits of damp paper on the flowers and the balloons attached to the fence and the gateposts.

Lily, can’t believe you’re gone.

One more angel in heaven.

Missing you, babe.

All the usual stuff. Then, without turning, she said, ‘You were friends of Lily’s.’ It was better to make it a statement rather than a question. Hope they’d assume she knew already.

‘Monique was her best mate.’ Again, it was the blonde talking. Her head jerked to one side, indicating the tall, dark girl who was pulling threads from the zip of a bag on her shoulder that bulged with coloured folders and files. Blondie again, ‘Go on, Mon, tell her.’

Monique looked up through a curtain of dark strands. ‘We started at St Mary’s together.’ She had an unusually deep voice for such a thin girl, seemed shy but sensible, and for some reason, Loretta was reminded of her own daughter, Pearl. Pearl, at 16, was more assured. But then, her friend hadn’t just been murdered.

‘The primary? You were – what – 4, 5?’

The girl nodded, staring at the ground, still pulling those threads, and scraping the toe of one shoe on the pavement.

‘I’m sorry. You must miss her.’

Another nod, but something else was going on here. The other two girls exchanged a glance. Looked from Monique to Loretta. The third one, small and pretty, with mousy hair streaked with one or two fake strands of bright red, elbowed Monique, who shrugged and shot a fierce glance at her, letting out a flamboyant, ‘Ow,’ as she rubbed her arm.

‘What?’ Loretta made the question light, smiling and looking from one to the other.

They didn’t speak. Blondie shrugged and crossed her arms, as if it was nothing to do with her. The other girl looked at Monique still scraping the pavement.

It probably was nothing, schoolgirl gossip or fantasy, but she needed to clear it up, in case it came out later that she’d missed something. They’d love that down at the station, Maggie and her crew. She turned as if to go, her voice even lighter, unconcerned. ‘OK.’

This was too much for blondie. ‘Go on, Monique, tell her.’

Take it easy now. Get her confidence. ‘If there’s anything at all then you should tell me. You won’t get in trouble, and Lily would want you to help us. You know that, don’t you?’ For a moment, she almost mentioned Lily’s mum and dad, but, of course, whatever the girl was revving up to say might be about them – or one of them, at least.

Monique shuffled and twitched and the other two closed in, arms around her back, heads close to hers. She looked up and her lips were pressed tight together, the soft little chin wobbling. ‘It’s just – well – we didn’t. You know, we weren’t, anymore.’

‘You weren’t friends anymore?’

‘No. Well, not really.’ Her eyes dropped again and a tear ran down her cheek.

‘So you fell out? You had a fight?’

Silence. Monique was crying lumpy sobs from deep in her chest, and blondie could stand it no longer. ‘She didn’t want to see none of us. It was that boyfriend, that Samuel. That’s all she was interested in.’

‘Do you know this boy’s other name?’

Scrabbling in her bag for a tissue Monique shook her head.

And Loretta looked at the others. ‘What about you two?’

Blondie again. ‘Nah. Lily didn’t talk about him. Just stopped going around with us, but I saw them together, once, and asked her who he was. She said his name was Samuel.’

‘So he doesn’t go to your school?’

Monique crossed her arms tight over her chest and looked at Loretta with big brown eyes. They were red-rimmed but looked more angry than unhappy. ‘He don’t go to school at all. He’s with that mad lot – The Children, or whatever they call themselves.’

‘Do you mean the commune that runs a farm out in the country? The Children of Light?’ From what Loretta had heard they were some kind of semi-religious sect.

Blondie said, ‘Yeah, those nutters. Hardly talked to us after she got with them.’

Chapter Three

Rosie

On the afternoons when she wasn’t working as a supply teacher at one or other of the local comprehensives, Rosie always walked to Fay’s school. Today, the stroll through tree-lined streets in the June sunshine soothed her. When the doors opened she saw her daughter break away from the teacher, her face creased with delight as she ran through the jostle of little figures.

But Fay wasn’t looking at her today and she was shrieking, ‘Nana, Nana,’ as she ran.

Rosie closed her eyes. Please, no. But it was too late; her mum was beside her, and Fay dropped her book bag and lunchbox and threw her arms around her grandmother’s waist.

‘Nana, you came to meet me. Mummy said we couldn’t see you. Why not? I’ve been missing you.’

Marion knelt, looking at Rosie over Fay’s head with the apologetic smile she always seemed to use lately. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ve been busy, but I’m here now.’

‘Can we come for tea then? Please, Nana.’

Rosie looked around and saw the second little girl running towards them, dark pigtails bouncing. She had her excuse. ‘No, darling, you know we can’t. We’re looking after Harriet; she’s having tea at ours. Say bye to Nana. We’ll see her again soon.’ She took Harriet’s sticky hand and reached for Fay, but her daughter clung, mule-faced, to her nan and kicked the lunchbox that still lay on the ground.

‘Tell you what …’ Her mother picked up Fay’s things, avoiding Rosie’s eye. ‘I’ve got the car. Why don’t I take you all into town? We can get some ice cream to eat on the beach. Maybe go to the amusement arcade.’ This was greeted by bounces and shrieks from the girls.

Fay pulled her grandmother towards the car, calling behind her, ‘Come on, Harriet, come on, Mummy.’

Rosie stayed where she was for a moment, shaking her head, but there was nothing she could do as her mother opened the car and the two girls climbed into the back. Harriet, dark plaits as chunky and neat as the child herself. Fay, a total contrast, with her thin little legs in her favourite lace-trimmed socks, and the untidy honey-coloured hair she’d inherited from Rosie floating around her pointed face. Fay’s bright eyes looked back at her, their expression a mixture of triumph and pleading. Don’t be cross, Mummy, was the message. Rosie knew she risked a major tantrum if she tried to intervene and, anyway, what could she say? How could Fay understand that they could no longer trust her grandmother?

By the time Rosie got into the car the girls were already buckled up, giggling and chattering together. She tried to keep her voice light. ‘I told you I’d ring.’

Marion started the car, but didn’t pull away. ‘You keep saying that, but you never do and when I ring you won’t talk.’

‘There’s nothing to say, Mum.’

‘You can see how much Fay misses me. Please, Rosemary, come round. We’d love to see you.’

‘So it’s “we” now, is it?’ She was conscious of the bitter note in her voice and glanced back at the girls, but they were happily swapping hair bands and clips.

‘If you could see him. He’s changed so much. Sometimes, I can hardly bear to look at him.’ Her mother’s voice was gruff and she brushed at her cheek with the back of her hand.

Rosie forced herself to whisper. ‘I haven’t been able to look at him for fifteen years. And how you could bring yourself to take him back—’

‘But if you just talked to him.’

‘My god, can you hear yourself? You know what he did. Christ, what he was probably doing for years.’ Rosie stopped, aware of the listening silence from the back seat, and she turned, twisting her mouth into what she hoped might pass for a smile. ‘Tell you what, girls, shall we ask Nana to take us to the soft play centre? You can have tea there if you like.’

A squeal from both girls and then Fay, ‘Oh, yes please, Mummy, I love you. Nana, can we?’

Rosie felt her mother squeeze her knee with a soft, ‘Thank you, darling,’ before adding loudly, ‘Of course, if that’s what you want. And when you two are playing, Mummy and Nana can have a nice chat.’

If the girls were hungry they soon forgot about it when they saw the brilliantly coloured apparatus. They threw off their shoes and headed away. As they disappeared into the mass of shrieking children, all twisting and bouncing with excitement, Rosie shouted: ‘We’ll be over here. No going down head first, remember.’

It wasn’t until they were settled at a table that Rosie looked properly at her mother. Marion had aged in the past few weeks. Around the time of Alice’s death, she had gone from being plumpish to almost angular. The weight had gradually come back on, but today her face was as drawn and grey as it had been during that dreadful time. The urge to touch her, to say it was all right, was very strong. Instead, Rosie waved at Fay at the top of a twisting slide. Harriet, gasping and pink from her own shrieking plummet down, stood at the bottom urging her on. As Fay leapt forward, Marion pressed one hand to her own breastbone.

‘It’s all right, she’s quite safe. They test these things all the time,’ Rosie said.

Her mum looked at her with a tight smile. ‘Yes, I’m sure they do.’

They watched as two little girls in matching pink jogging bottoms walked by giggling together, followed by a man with a toddler wriggling in his arms and a small boy clutching at his leg, begging to be carried too. As he passed, the man raised his eyebrows at Rosie in mock exasperation.

She pulled her purse from her bag, trying to put off the inevitable. ‘You keep an eye on them and I’ll get some drinks. Do you want tea or coffee?’

Her mother touched her sleeve. ‘Rosemary …’ Rosie could feel her jaw grow hard. ‘Just come round, will you? Bring Fay. Please, dear, it would mean so much.’

She couldn’t trust herself to say anything more than a hard, ‘No.’

‘But he’s your dad and he’s never even seen Fay. He’d be so happy if you’d bring her over just for a few minutes. It’s all he talks about.’

‘Apart from lying about what he did you mean?’

Her mother let out a small groan. ‘He didn’t do it. I know that now and I can’t forgive myself for not sticking by him.’ She glanced round and lowered her voice. ‘It was dreadful for him in there. He won’t tell me much, but he has nightmares and … Oh, Rosie, to think we let him go through that alone for all those years.’

‘He deserved it. Deserved much worse for what he did.’

Marion leaned forward, whispering so fiercely her breath tickled Rosie’s cheek. ‘But he didn’t. He loved Alice; he could never have killed her. I don’t know how we could have let them persuade us. And as for the rest, what they suggested, I never believed that. It was too horrible. I would have known if he was interfering with her.’ She twisted to look into Rosie’s face. ‘You’ve said yourself: he never touched you like that. Well, that proves it, surely.’

‘Maybe I was too young. Or not pretty enough.’

Her mother’s shudder made the plastic table shake. ‘You don’t believe that.’

Rosie felt like screaming at her to shut up, but she took a deep breath and made herself speak. ‘What I know is that, if he was innocent, he could surely have made a better job of defending himself at the time. Even I could see his story didn’t hold up properly and I was desperate to believe him.’ Her voice was shrill enough to stop a small boy in his tracks. He stood staring at them, a red ice lolly sticking from his mouth.

‘Billy, come on, Billy.’ He continued to stare, crimson juice dripping onto his white Tshirt. A woman was beside them now, taking his hand. ‘Oh, Billy, look at you. Come and sit over here till you finish that.’ She shot a glance at them that said very clearly it was their fault.

Rosie looked towards the play area and her mother followed her gaze. Fay and Harriet, running through a maze of foam shapes, waved and laughed at them. Rosie waved back then turned to Marion again, lowering her voice. ‘Just because he’s convinced you – made you believe what you want to believe – that proves nothing.’

‘He has evidence but he wants to let it lie. Can’t face any more police or lawyers.’

Rosie stood up. She needed to get away. Couldn’t hear this. ‘I’ll go for those teas.’

At the counter, she was able to talk and smile as if nothing was happening. But her hands were shaking and the teacups rattled in their saucers as she put them on the table.

Her mother said: ‘I’ve upset you. I’m so sorry. Dad told me not to say anything. Said it would do no good raking it all up.’

The words came out in a rush. ‘This so-called evidence proves someone else killed Alice, does it?’

‘No. Just that Dad didn’t.’

It was rubbish, of course. As she’d known it would be. ‘So why did he admit he did it then, after all this time?’

‘Because his lawyer said it was best to go for parole. He could get out almost immediately if he accepted his guilt. If he hung on hoping for a new trial, he’d be in there much longer. And he couldn’t have survived that. All he cares about now is getting his family back.’

‘So he doesn’t want to find out who really did it?’ It was difficult to get the words out.

‘He said he couldn’t make us go through all that again. It would do more harm than good. But he showed me the new evidence and it convinced me.’

A spurt of anger made Rosie grit her teeth and take a heavy breath. ‘But it was you who told me we must accept that he did it.’

‘I know and I’ll never forgive myself for that, Rosemary. And it was partly my fault he was convicted.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Her mum closed her eyes, swaying back and forth, her voice very soft. ‘I was so angry with him. You remember what it was like when he got ill and had to give up work. Our lives changed so much. You and Alice were arguing all the time and so were Dad and I.’

Rosie swallowed a gulp of tea. She didn’t want to think about any of this. Their dad had been forced to give up his job when he developed rheumatoid arthritis. He was a violinist, and an important one too – leader of the Eastbourne Philharmonic Orchestra – but it was soon impossible for him to play at that level.

They just about managed to keep hold of the big house in the village outside Hastings, but could no longer afford the fees for the private school both girls went to. Somehow, they wangled Alice a scholarship so she could stay there, but Rosie had to move to a state comprehensive.

Her mother was still going on. ‘I knew it wasn’t his fault that he was ill, but he seemed to accept it all so easily. Almost as if he was happy about it. I think it was a relief to have less responsibility and to stay at home. But it damaged us as a family and that didn’t appear to bother him at all.’

Rosie put down her cup so heavily that tea slopped into the saucer. ‘I know all this, Mum.’

Marion’s eyes flicked open. She looked surprised. As if she’d forgotten anyone was there. ‘That last week, when you were at school, we had a huge row and he was going to move out. That was why I went away that weekend. I think I wanted to believe what the police said about him. And I’m sure it was me turning against him that helped sway the jury.’ Marion had refused the defence’s pleas to turn up to the trial, and the papers had highlighted her absence, suggesting it meant she thought he was guilty. Which, of course, it did.

There was no avoiding it. ‘So what exactly is this evidence then?’

‘I can’t tell you. You have to speak to your father.’

Rosie shook her head and turned away. She might have known. It was just some madeup story from her dad, an excuse to get her over there. Nothing had changed. Except that now she knew better than to trust anything he said.

She took a deep breath, and beckoned to the girls. As they came running back she said, without looking round, ‘I need to get these two some food and then take them home.’

Her mother tried to grab her hand. ‘Please, Rosemary,’ but she pulled it away.

‘Oh no. That’s not going to happen. Nothing you’ve said makes any real difference. So, if you want to keep seeing me and Fay, you’d better accept it. I don’t ever want to hear about that man again.’

Joe

Joe watched Loretta in the back garden on her mobile, walking back and forth as she talked. She had come straight in from talking to the girls outside, taken a quick peep at Hannah and then gone out the back. Joe wished he could get out of the house too. Didn’t think he could stand being cooped up like this much longer. Longed to escape. To go back to work. Away from all the questions. But he knew what they would think.

Loretta looked smaller out of uniform, and he registered for the first time that she was a good-looking woman. The call seemed important, although she might just be ordering a pizza, but he wanted to know what she was talking about, so he went down and put the kettle on.

When she came through the back door, he had two mugs of coffee ready. Handed one straight to her so she couldn’t refuse.

She smiled and sat at the table, taking a big gulp. ‘Thanks, Joe. I needed that.’

‘Was that Monique you were talking to out the front?’ He couldn’t even try to be subtle.

‘Yes. She says she was Lily’s best friend. Seems like a nice girl.’

He found himself smiling, remembering. ‘Oh yeah, they were always together since they were little. That was all Lily worried about when she went to the secondary. She had to go to the same one as Monique and they had to be in the same form.’

‘And were they?’

‘Yes. And if they hadn’t been …’ He shook his head and looked down, stirring his coffee and trying to focus on the dark brown swirls. He’d almost said Hannah would have gone mad. An image of the two of them – Hannah, his real Hannah, not the ghostly stranger who lay upstairs, sitting with her arm around Lily, telling her they wouldn’t let her be upset, would always look out for her – came suddenly to mind. The picture was so sharp he flinched.

‘The girls mentioned a boyfriend. Did you know about him?’ Loretta said.

‘No, I mean I don’t think there was anyone.’ But, of course, he’d been working away a lot recently, so he couldn’t be sure. Hannah would have told him, though, wouldn’t she? Something as important as that?

‘Apparently, he’s connected with that sect: the commune.’

Joe stared, thinking he must have heard wrong.

‘You know, The Children of Light.’

Her gaze was steady, and he could almost feel her itching to note down his reaction. He forced himself to speak calmly although his heart was beating faster. ‘No. Lily wouldn’t have got involved with them.’

‘That’s not what Monique says. She says Lily started going there and met Samuel. Do you think Hannah knew?’

He tipped the rest of his coffee down the sink then turned to take the mug Loretta held out to him. It was obvious she was watching and waiting for more. Knew she’d hit a nerve. He put the tablet in the dishwasher, switched it on, and continued to stand, looking out at the garden. The shed door at the back was open, the grass needed cutting, and a couple of towels had been hanging on the rotary line for days.

‘Hannah was with them – The Children of Light – when we met,’ he said. He could feel Loretta’s eyes on him and had to turn and look at her. She wasn’t even pretending this was just a chat now. ‘But it was all so long ago and it couldn’t have anything to do with Lily.’

He told her the bare bones: that Hannah was an orphan, only eighteen, and he was a bit older, twenty-four. She had got mixed up with the commune when she became homeless. They gave her a bed, but she was fed up with the way they tried to run every aspect of their converts’ lives. Joe met her, they fell in love and that would have been it, but The Children made it difficult for them, kept sending people round to ask her to come back.

‘They threatened her?’

He’d almost forgotten Loretta was there. It must be one of the techniques they taught them – to become invisible. Be careful. He made himself pause and slow down. ‘I don’t think so. She just said they kept on about how she’d turned her back on the Light. Stuff like that. We laughed about it.’

‘And it stopped?’

‘Oh yeah. She hasn’t had any contact with them for years. Not that I know of anyway.’ Stupid, stupid, why did I have to say that? Hannah doesn’t keep things from me.

‘But she’d have been angry if Lily got mixed up with them?’

‘Not angry, no.’ He wasn’t falling for that one. ‘She’d have been …’ he searched for a neutral word, ‘concerned. We both would. I mean, that was why she was so keen to get away in the first place. Didn’t want Lily growing up there.’

‘Hang on a minute, Joe, I thought you said Hannah left them when you first got together. That would have been before Lily was born, surely.’

Oh, God, she didn’t know. Hannah hadn’t told them. He took a breath. Tried to speak casually. ‘No, because when I met Hannah she already had Lily. She was nearly two. I’m not – I wasn’t – her real dad.’ Very aware of her silence he found himself rushing on. ‘But Lily knew. We told her when she was old enough. She said it didn’t matter because I was all the dad she needed. I always treated her like a dad, loved her like a dad. Well, better than a dad if mine was anything to go by.’

He knew he was rambling, could feel her waiting for the words to dribble to a stop. The guilty-sounding words. But he couldn’t stop, even though his voice was beginning to waver. ‘I thought Hannah would have told you, but I suppose she didn’t think to. As I say, we all thought of Lily as mine. Well, she was mine. I adopted her.’

There was a pause before she smiled at him. It was a lovely smile, and he could almost believe it was genuine.

‘No, Hannah didn’t mention it, but never mind. It’s best if we have all the facts.’ She folded her arms, still with that gentle smile. ‘And the biological father?’

‘He’s never been in the picture, and Hannah didn’t want to talk about him.’ He was doing it all wrong again, but Loretta seemed satisfied. She glanced at her watch and stood, putting her bag over her shoulder.

‘Well, thanks for the coffee, Joe, and for clearing things up a bit more. It’s not easy, I know, to talk about the past at a time like this, but if we can get a detailed picture it can only help. Hannah seems a bit calmer today, but if there’s an emergency you’ve got my mobile number.’

When she had gone he went upstairs. Hannah was lying on the bed, her dark hair spreading over the pillow. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress with a bluey green pattern. It was one he’d always liked, but she hardly ever wore because she preferred trousers. Her bare legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles, her toenails still painted red, and he was filled with such a longing for her he had to bite his lip to keep back a gasp.

When he took off his shoes and lay beside her, as always, now, she turned to face the wall. He wanted to pull her round, force her to talk, but he was afraid of what she might say. What they both might say. Instead, he curled over and put his arm round her. She stiffened, then seemed to relax just a little.

It was enough. He pressed his face into her hair and felt the sobs wrenching out of him. Something deep inside tearing away. Then, unbelievably, Hannah’s hand, feeling so cold and rough he almost didn’t know it as hers, reached up and covered his.

How long he cried, gripping her cold hand, smelling her stale hair, he didn’t know but, finally, he slept.

When he woke, Hannah was gone.

Chapter Four

Rosie

Fay was at the window before Rosie even registered the sound of the car. ‘Daddy. Daddy’s home.’ She bounced about and dragged at the curtain, threatening to bring it down, as Oliver pulled into the drive with a rattle of gravel.

He had been gone a week and, although they were used to his trips away and he’d rung home every night, Fay hated it. For Rosie, too, the house had seemed very empty.

They stood on the step, Fay still bouncing, until Rosie let go of her hand. Then she ran to throw her arms around her dad’s waist while he tried to lock up and deal with his jacket and briefcase. Watching them, Rosie couldn’t help smiling. They looked like an advert for the perfect family – or part of it anyway. She had the feeling that, if she joined them, everyone would say they’d miscast the mother.

As always, when she saw Oliver after he’d been away, she thought how good he looked. They’d spent a lot of weekends this year messing about on the little cabin cruiser they kept moored at Rye Harbour. He’d picked up a tan, and the way his short fair hair had been brightened by the sun really suited him. He swung Fay into his arms and kissed the top of her head, looking over to smile at Rosie: the sweet smile that made her heart glow.

Still carrying Fay, he struggled through the front door. ‘Now I need to breathe and to talk to Mummy for a bit please, sweetie,’ he said, lowering Fay to the ground and untangling her arms from his neck.

But Fay wasn’t going to let him off that easily. ‘I’ve done you some pictures. They’re in my room.’ She took his hand and pulled him across the hallway to the wide staircase as he laughed and raised his fair brows at Rosie.

Listening to Fay chattering away upstairs and Oliver’s soft replies, Rosie smiled to herself as she made coffee. When Oliver came down again, Fay trotting after him, she said, ‘Why don’t you show Daddy what a big girl you are and help him in with his bags?’

‘Good idea, I need someone with muscles but, first, can you find my keys? I think I dropped them upstairs somewhere.’ Oliver winked at Rosie as Fay turned and raced away again with an, ‘I’ll get them.’

As soon as she was gone he pulled Rosie to him. ‘That should keep her busy for a bit.’ Their kiss was long and warm, and afterwards, she nestled against his chest as he stroked her hair. She felt herself relax and all the anxieties about her mum and dad begin to ebb away. Oliver was here now and together they could deal with anything.

‘I’ve missed you, Rosebud,’ he said. ‘And I need a lie down. Will you come up and tuck me in?’ He raised his voice as Fay appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘And, look at that, the car keys were in my pocket all the time.’

Rosie smiled. ‘You go up. I’ll bring you some coffee.’

She gave Fay a cup of juice and a biscuit to have in front of the TV and stood at the living room door. When it was obvious that her daughter, lying on her tummy, a chocolate digestive suspended in front of her mouth, was absorbed in Thunderbirds Are Go, she carried the two cups of coffee upstairs.

Oliver was in bed, his clothes scattered on the floor, and she put the coffees on her bedside table and curled up close to him. They lay for a while, breathing together, but when he began to undo her buttons she pulled away. He sat up, rubbing at his fair hair until it stood in spikes. ‘What’s wrong?’

She passed him a cup of coffee. ‘It’s just, with Fay downstairs—’

‘That’s not all, though, is it?’ When she didn’t answer he said: ‘Fay told me you’d seen Marion.’

She pulled her shirt closed. ‘Mum turned up outside the school, and Fay would have thrown a wobbler if we hadn’t gone with her.’

‘But you didn’t go over there, did you?’

‘Of course not.’

He picked up a T-shirt from beside the bed, his voice muffled as he dragged it over his head. ‘This isn’t going to stop, you know that. And, eventually, you’ll give in to her, like you always do.’

A spurt of anger made her get up and walk over to the window. ‘This is different. Do you honestly think I’d let Fay anywhere near that place with him there?’

One of her buttons was loose, hanging by a single thread. ‘Damn it.’ She snapped it off and tossed the button onto her cluttered dressing table, knowing she’d probably never find it again.

They both started as the door opened and Fay stood there, her face pinched. ‘You were cross, Mummy, I heard you.’ She had always hated raised voices, but lately she seemed to have developed antennae that vibrated at the slightest hint of tension between her parents.

As always, Oliver knew what to do, grabbing her and throwing her on the rumpled duvet. ‘It’s just,’ tickle, tickle, ‘your bad-tempered mummy,’ tickle, tickle, ‘getting cross,’ tickle, tickle, ‘because she lost a button.’

Fay was soon an exhausted bundle of giggles, and Rosie felt a surge of love for them both. This was her family, not that pathetic old pair in Bexhill. When she and Oliver made love tonight, she’d tell him she wanted another baby and that he was right: they needed to get away from here. They had talked about moving abroad ever since Fay was born, but Rosie had always worried about leaving her mum. Well she could forget about that now. Just the thought of her parents living together again after all her mother had said made her feel sick. She wanted to be as far from them as possible. If she stayed here, she would never escape Alice’s death.

‘Fay, you have something for school to finish so leave Daddy to get changed and come down with me.’

Oliver pushed Fay gently off the bed and when she stood, arms crossed and face twisted in a stubborn grimace, he laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘Go on, and if you do your homework you can choose a game for us to play together. A board game, mind, not computer.’

That did it, and Fay was soon filling in her worksheet at the big pine table while Rosie peeled potatoes. It was quiet and all the glass made the kitchen bright and warm. The room was at its best in summer at this time of day and, with Oliver home again, Rosie should have felt happy, but her mind kept going back to Alice’s death.

* * *

She was 14 when it happened; Alice was two years older. They had been great friends when they were younger, but not so much by then. It didn’t help that they no longer went to the same school. The comprehensive Rosie had to move to was all right, but she missed her friends. They’d promised to keep in touch, but she was so angry she ignored their texts and messages until they gradually dwindled away.

Alice was fine, of course. There might be less money around, but nothing else had changed for her. So, Rosie couldn’t understand why she was so mean all of a sudden. Never wanted to do things together like they used to. Instead, her mates would come round when Mum and Dad were out. They sprawled all over the living room, smoking, and playing deafening music. The boys’ long legs and the girls’ perfume filled the place and, once, Rosie found a big towel all crumpled on the bathroom floor and a condom floating in the toilet. She flushed it away and threw the towel in the wash basket, not sure why she was doing it. It would have served Alice right if Dad had found out about her and her horrible friends.

But then – so suddenly – Alice was dead and they said Dad did it, which couldn’t be true because he loved Alice, even when she swore at him or slammed doors in his face. He loved Rosie too and she loved him and knew he couldn’t have hurt anyone. But it all changed one day when her mum sat her down and said they had to face facts. He must have done it. The police had explained their evidence to her and there was no one else it could have been. Even worse, they said he might have done it because he had been molesting Alice and some of the girls he took for private music lessons.

She’d forced herself to accept it and had tried to forget her father for the past fifteen years. There must be a reason why her mother had changed her mind after all this time. But whatever it was Rosie didn’t want to hear it.

It was too late.

Loretta

Philips was furious with Loretta for taking so long to find out Joe was only the adoptive father. That had to be significant. So, she was under orders to discover who the real dad was – and sharpish.

‘Shall I try to get a bit more out of the girl, Monique, sir? You know, about this Samuel lad,’ she asked.

‘No. You focus on the family. Make sure there’s nothing else we’ve missed. That mother knows a lot she isn’t telling us.’

At least she’d shown the rest of them down the nick she wasn’t just babysitting and making tea. Her mate, Andy, said he’d overheard Philips giving DS Davis a ticking off too. Apparently, he didn’t bother to lower his voice when he said they should have known all this – that the husband wasn’t the biological father, as well as about the boyfriend and the connection with The Children. Andy chuckled when he told her this. He didn’t like Davis.

Hannah was asleep when she arrived at the house. It was after eleven, but Joe said she’d been pacing the house most of the night, then took a pill and conked out. He avoided her eyes, and Loretta could see he was even more wary of her this morning. No doubt he realized what he’d told her last time didn’t make him look good. Unlikely, then, that she’d get any more out of him until she made him relax a bit.

‘You look tired yourself, Joe. Can I get you a drink or something to eat?’ He shook his head, as she knew he would, but she pulled out a chair and sat down, shoving her bag under the kitchen table and slipping off her jacket.

Joe began to load the washing machine, hitching at the back of his jeans as he bent down. He still managed to look clean and tidy, she noticed, in contrast to his wife who’d lost it completely. In fact, and she quashed this thought almost as it came into her head, some people might think he wasn’t bad looking.

He was at the back door now. ‘Better get those towels in,’ he said, and she watched as he fiddled with the line, took the towels down, folded them carefully then stopped to inspect something on the path. Anything to stay away from her.

She spoke as soon as he came in again. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to Hannah yet? Since yesterday?’ Leave it vague, don’t close off any options.

He looked straight at her for once. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, what about the boyfriend? Have you had any thoughts?’

‘I suppose if you could find her phone …’

They hadn’t. Lily had texted her mum on that last morning to say she’d arrived safely at school, like she did every day. That seemed a bit OTT – Loretta could imagine what her kids would say if she asked them to do that. And in the end, it didn’t keep her safe, did it? The phone had been turned off after the text. They knew Lily had been at school all morning and for afternoon registration, but from then on no one had seen her. Apparently, her mum started worrying at about 5.30 when she couldn’t raise her on her mobile. Not surprising, as the girl was dead by then.

She asked him about Monique and, apparently, she only lived in the next street. It might be worth trying to beat Davis to it by popping round there now. There was probably nothing to do here until Hannah woke up.

There was a bad smell outside the house where some bunches of chrysanthemums had gone past their best. She wondered why people didn’t see how dreadful plastic-wrapped flowers looked propped up against walls and lamp posts once the dirt and damp of the streets had got to them.

It was a relief to head along the street, although the whole area was looking grim in the bright sunshine. This was one of the council estates where they’d sold off a lot of properties in the 1980s, but many of the houses were now short-term rentals. Monique was at school, of course, but her mum, leaning on the side of her open front door, was keen to talk.

‘He’s one of that Children of Light lot. Never saw him myself and I don’t think my Mon has either, but his name’s Samuel, according to my neighbour.’

Loretta looked behind her at the sound of a car drawing up, but it was only a delivery van for a house across the road. She needed to hurry this woman along, before any of Davis’s crew got here. ‘But he doesn’t go to Monique and Lily’s school, I gather. Is he older than them?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. Monique’s friend saw him and told Mon that he looked about their age, but I think that Children lot teach the kids themselves, don’t they?’

‘Homeschooling? Yes, that would make sense. So do you know Samuel’s surname?’

‘Well, you’ve got me there, love. Barnes, was it? Something like that. No wait. On second thoughts, it was Barnet. Yes, I’m sure it was, cos I remember thinking it was the name of a place in London. But then so is Barnes. You could ask my neighbour, but she’s at her son’s for a couple of days.’

At last she got away and called Davis, but he said he’d already sent someone to talk to Lily’s friends in school and they’d get the boy’s exact name – no bother.

Still, she decided to go back to the station. With Hannah asleep she was wasting her time here.

Chapter Five

Joe

Joe waited until Loretta’s car turned the corner then headed down the back garden to the gate at the end that led to the lane and the garages. They’d taken his van and Hannah’s little Fiat away, ‘just to eliminate them from the inquiry’, but had returned the car already. Hannah loved that car and, while his van had to sit on the drive in front of the house, she insisted on keeping the Fiat in the garage. He was always on at her to let him use the garage for a workshop, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Now he was glad because no one was likely to notice him leaving.

He couldn’t sit about doing nothing any longer. The police weren’t telling him anything and Hannah wasn’t talking to him, but he had to find out about this so-called boyfriend of Lily’s.

The Children of Light, stupid name, had its headquarters in an old farm, fifteen miles or so out of town. Seeing the fields flash by, and the white and purple flowers hanging off the roadside verges, he began to breathe more easily and was able to lean back into the headrest. With the window open to let in the breeze and the sun sparkling over the countryside it felt almost as if nothing had happened. His hand even hovered for a minute over the radio. He always used to listen to music when he drove. But that was before and he bit the inside of his mouth till it hurt, fighting the urge to say the name that circled endlessly in his head. Lily, Lily, Lily. Oh Lily, love, I’m so sorry.

As the farm came closer the memories of his last drive here flooded in. The day he went to pick them up, all those years ago – Hannah and little Lily. His stomach had been churning, in case Hannah had changed her mind about leaving. He knew they’d been pulling out all the stops to persuade her to stay. Or maybe that arsehole, Jerome, the pastor as he called himself, would make it difficult. Joe hated confrontations, never knew what to say and always wanted to hit out, but that was exactly what the slimy bastard wanted.

In the end, it had turned out wonderful, of course. Hannah was already waiting at the end of the drive, holding Lily’s hand, their two little bags beside them. When Lily raised her arms to be picked up and pressed her damp lips to his cheek, he thought his heart would burst.

And then Hannah said, with a special smile at him, ‘Daddy’s taking us home, baby.’ How great that sounded. Especially when she gripped his knee and smiled again, her grey eyes all crinkled and her chin set as if to stop herself crying.

Then Lily, in the new child seat he’d just fitted, began to sing. ‘The wheels on the bus go wound and wound.’

That particular memory – her little voice so happy – was one he’d always treasured. But now … Stop it, just stop it.

He parked in a quiet spot a few yards down the road from the driveway. Didn’t want to alert them, or be seen by the police if they were there, but he felt shaky and exposed in the sunshine as he walked up the track to the house.

It was surrounded by fields, and a couple of the brethren, as they called themselves, were loading a tractor in the distance. One of them waved at him – they always made a big thing of being friendly.

The porch was cluttered with boots and gardening tools, and a few chickens scratched in the dirt. He knocked on the immense front door and a girl came out, wiping her hands on the apron they all seemed to wear. She was thin as a rail, but her smile beamed.

‘Good morning, brother, how can I help?’ The standard greeting, yes, he recalled that too.

‘I want to see Pastor Jerome, please.’ He tried to make his voice pleasant.

She looked around. ‘Can you wait?’

After five minutes he lost patience. Avoiding the door the girl had gone through, he opened the one opposite – a big empty room with a couple of sofas and lots of easy chairs. The next two doors were cupboards, one full of cleaning stuff, another stacked with books and leaflets. Finally, an office, and there he was – Jerome. He looked a bit older, a bit balder, but otherwise much as Joe remembered, more like a businessman than a religious leader in his white shirt and blue tie.

He looked up from the laptop he was using with a calm, ‘Yes?’

Before Joe could speak, the girl he’d seen earlier rushed in only to make a sudden stop when she saw him, her hands at her mouth. She was followed by a plump older woman, who put her arm around the girl’s waist. Both women made a gesture that looked almost like a curtsy and the girl began to mutter, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ sounding close to tears.

The older woman hushed her and turned to Joe. ‘You were asked to wait, brother.’

Jerome pushed back his chair. ‘Come here, little sister,’ he said. Even sitting he dwarfed the girl. He took her hands in his. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, my dear. Now, off you go. I’ll deal with this.’ He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Then looked over at the older woman. ‘It’s fine, Sister Clara, don’t worry.’

They backed out and Joe wondered if they were forbidden to turn away from the pastor. He wouldn’t put it past the wanker to have thought up a rule like that.

Jerome gestured to Joe to take a chair. ‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Joe? But, of course, we heard the sad news. I suppose this is about our poor, dear, Sister Lily.’

Joe wanted to punch that smirk off his face, but he kept his voice level. ‘It’s just Lily. My daughter didn’t belong to your lot.’

The smirk was still there. ‘Not officially, no, but she was involved.’

‘Only because she took up with a lad who lives here, according to the police.’

‘I’m afraid they’re wrong about that, Joe. Lily was very keen to join us. She came to one of our meetings and, like so many young people, she realized something was missing in her life. She felt at home here.’

That was it. Joe thrust his chair back so hard it tipped over. ‘There was nothing missing in Lily’s life, and she had a perfectly good home.’

The fucker was still smiling. ‘She wasn’t happy; surely you could see that. Or were you away so often you didn’t notice?’

Don’t let him get to you. ‘I just want to see this boy.’

Jerome shook his head, the smile still fixed. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave, Joe. I understand you’re distressed, but I can’t tell you anymore than I have. I know nothing about any boy.’

The door opened and two of the brethren – a couple of hulks with faces like Easter Island statues – stood there. Jerome began tapping at his laptop. ‘The brethren will see you off the premises.’

Joe looked at the hulks. There was no point in arguing.

Rosie

Rosie had persuaded herself she was just going for an aimless drive in the country to try and clear her mind. But here she was again in Sedlescombe, the village where she was born, parking opposite their old house. The house she lived in until she was fifteen. The house where Alice died.

She and Oliver had discussed the move abroad in more detail last night. They’d almost decided to go last year when he wanted to change jobs. But her mum was having a bad time then, knowing her ex-husband might soon be out of prison, and Rosie hadn’t felt able to leave her. So, Oliver had joined a firm of corporate solicitors in London.

He wasn’t happy there, and he was right that things were different now. ‘You gave up so much to stay near your mother. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ She never got to be a proper student: to live away, to make friends, to kick up her heels. Had no choice but to go to Sussex University, travelling home every night to the bleak flat in Bexhill they’d moved to after the trial, trying to be cheerful, to pretend they were living a normal life. If it hadn’t been for Oliver she would have gone mad. And her mum hadn’t been happy when she started seeing him either. Kept telling Rosie she was too young to get serious. Making her feel guilty whenever she went out with him.

And after all that, look at what Mum had done. Rosie owed her no loyalty. And if they went far enough away from England, there would be no question of her turning up at the house or Fay’s school. No chance he might turn up.

France was no distance these days. She could still teach music there and maybe English as well. Oliver was really fired up with the idea, and Rosie just wished she could feel as excited.

The old house was in a quiet tree-lined lane on the outskirts of the village and, as always, she was tempted to walk up the path to the front door. As if she could go in and find the place just the same as it had been and somehow stop it all from happening.

The living room curtains were open and she could see a sofa at the back with a shelf of books beside it. It looked almost as it had when she lived here; the way it looked on that awful day.

And here they came: the memories.

* * *

She’s 14 and sitting on a bus, on a beautiful summer’s day, at the start of the school holidays, but she’s really fed up. Dad drove her to her tennis lesson but, just as she got out of the car, he handed her some money. He needed to go shopping, he told her, and might not be finished in time to take her home, so she should get the bus. She’s had to sit on the bus sweating in her tatty old shorts and T-shirt. A boy she fancied from school got on and she turned away to look out of the window. But she was sure he’d seen her, with her shiny face and hair in two messy bunches.

If only she wasn’t on her own, but, of course, Alice had refused to come, hinting she had her period. Rosie guessed she was lying, as usual. Probably knew they wouldn’t get a lift back.

Now she’s chewing a torn nail and thinking that if this is how it’s going to be for the rest of the summer then she can’t stand it. Nothing is going right. Alice is a moody cow and Mum and Dad keep arguing. That’s probably why Mum’s gone to spend the weekend with Aunt Meg. It crosses Rosie’s mind, not for the first time recently, that her parents might get divorced.

As the bus passes the village green she checks it out, thinking Alice might be there. Alice pretends to hate the local kids, but Rosie knows she hangs out with some of them. It’s not fair because, even though Rosie goes to school with them, they still call her stuck-up and don’t seem to think that about Alice.

Their house is outside the village, so, when she gets off the bus, Rosie has to walk up the hill. By the time she reaches home she’s boiling. She’s got her key in her pocket and she could let herself in, or she could walk around to the back gate and through the French windows, but instead, she gives the bell three fierce buzzes, to make Alice stir herself. Of course, she doesn’t answer and Rosie has to use her key. Music is blaring out from the living room, but the door is closed. If Alice is going to be like that, she’ll just ignore her …

And that was where the memories became hazy and it all got mixed up with what she’d said to the police in her various interviews, as well as what they’d told her, what Mum had said, and what she’d read or heard later.

She knew she’d run upstairs to take off her sweaty shorts, T-shirt, and socks and pull her dressing gown over her bra and pants. Then she’d apparently gone down to put her tennis kit in the washing machine. She couldn’t actually recall doing that, but the clothes were certainly there when the police asked what she had been wearing. She must have put her stuff on to wash because Mum was away and Rosie thought she might play tennis again the next day.

How long was it until she heard Dad moving about downstairs? She wasn’t sure. The bathwater was running and Alice’s music was so loud it was difficult to hear anything else. And it had caused problems with the police when she couldn’t give them a proper estimate of the time Dad got home.

After that things were clearer …

She’s in the bathroom when she hears the front door closing and Alice’s music go silent. Dad must have told her to turn it off.

But the silence doesn’t feel right and she goes to the top of the stairs to peer over.

Dad is standing at the open living room door. Just standing there in a bright beam of sunlight. Rosie can’t see his face, but he must have heard her because he turns and looks up.

Then she does see his face. And she knows something awful has happened.

She runs down but, as she tries to go past Dad into the living room, he grabs her, holding so tight it hurts. His expression makes her stomach lurch. ‘No, Rosemary, don’t …’ But she can see already.

Alice is lying on the floor next to the sofa, all sort of twisted. She wants to go to her, see if she can help, but Dad is still holding her arm and he just keeps saying, ‘Wait for the ambulance. There’s nothing we can do.’ Which is mad, they have to do something, can’t leave Alice lying there.

Then – and she’s not sure how this happens – she’s sitting on the stairs, feeling sick and weak, staring at Dad as he shouts into the phone. ‘She’s hurt. She’s bleeding … Yes, I said, it’s bad.’

And the ambulance is here and the medics are in the living room. Someone is saying there’s nothing they can do. They say Alice is gone, even though that can’t be right. She can’t be gone. She can’t be dead. Not dead. Not Alice …

They’re sitting side by side at the big oak kitchen table. Dad’s arm is round her and she’s glad because, although it’s still warm outside and the Aga is on, she can’t stop shivering. There’s a policeman sitting opposite them at the table, asking questions about when she last saw Alice. If anyone has been hanging around the house. Was Alice worried about anything? She tries to answer, but she’s crying, doesn’t want to, but can’t stop and her nose is running and there’s nothing to wipe it on. Dad’s saying: ‘Can’t this wait? She’s in shock.’

And it must be hours later because Mum is back, pacing up and down and doing something with her hands like the woman Rosie saw in Macbeth last year. Mum hasn’t touched Dad or Rosie and hasn’t cried. She looks angry: white and angry. As if it was their fault – Rosie’s and Dad’s. Maybe it was. For letting Alice stay home on her own.

She’s all sweaty now in her thick dressing gown with her bra and pants underneath still damp from tennis. Wants to have a shower, to feel clean, but wanting that seems wrong, somehow.

‘Marion, darling, you must sit down.’ Her dad leads Mum to a chair at the table, but she shakes her head and goes to sit all hunched up on the big squashy sofa in the far corner. He stands looking at her for a minute then says, ‘What about something to eat? Rosemary must be hungry.’

She is a bit, although she feels bad about that too. She shouldn’t want to eat now Alice is dead. Alice is dead. Alice is dead.

Dad’s talking again. ‘Come on, Rosemary. Let’s make some sandwiches.’ He won’t stop talking and Mum won’t stop twisting her fingers together.

At the kitchen counter he cuts bread and asks Rosie to butter it. Then he slices tomatoes and puts the kettle on, gets milk out. He keeps saying it’ll be all right.

It won’t be. So why say that?

He stands behind her and rubs her shoulders. ‘But I’m afraid it’s going to be nasty for a while, my darling. And we have to be brave and stick together.’ She doesn’t know what to say, just carries on buttering. Remembers she should have washed her hands first. He puts ham on the bread. She wanted cheese, but it doesn’t matter. Alice is dead.

‘Rosie?’ He’s cutting the edges off the ham to fit perfectly on the bread. Mum never bothers about that. ‘The police will want to talk to you again, but don’t worry, I’ll be with you. Just tell them what happened. You didn’t do anything wrong and you didn’t see anything so …’ He seems to need an answer.

‘OK.’

‘Just tell them it was the same as always. Keep it simple. I’m afraid the police aren’t all that bright as a rule. So don’t confuse them. I don’t know when you got back, but I’ve told them we arrived home at almost the same time, so you’d better say that too.’

Chapter Six

Joe

Joe could see Hannah sitting in the kitchen as he closed the back gate, but when she saw him she stood and headed into the hall, probably going back upstairs. He made two mugs of tea, praying she hadn’t locked herself in the bathroom as she often did these days.

She was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, as usual. Her hair looked damp, so at least she’d washed properly this morning. He’d heard Loretta trying to persuade her to have a shower yesterday. ‘Make you feel a bit more yourself,’ that’s what she’d said. As if they could ever be themselves again. Their real selves: Lily’s mum and dad. Not: the parents of the dead teenager.

Of course, the tea had been a mistake because, as soon as she realized he was coming in, Hannah swung her legs off the bed and made to leave. He thrust the mugs onto the chest near the door, great dollops slopping over the side, and grabbed her arm. ‘Hannah, please. Please, I’ve made us some tea.’ She didn’t turn, but at least she stayed where she was, rubbing the red marks left by his fingers. ‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to hurt you, but sit down, please. Have your tea.’

He took a chance and sat on the bed with a mug in his hand. Still not looking at him, she pulled out a handful of tissues and dabbed at the slops, then took the other mug, went to sit at her little dressing table, and stared out into the street. They drank in silence for a few minutes.

When she put her mug down – she always drank her tea really quickly, they used to joke about her asbestos tongue – he knew he had to speak before she disappeared again. He gulped at his own drink, coughed, as a few drops went down the wrong way, but forced himself on.

‘I went to see them at The Children of Light.’ Her head jerked up. ‘They said Lily was involved. Called her Sister Lily, for God’s sake. Did you know about it, Hannah?’

A nod was all he got.

‘Why, love? Why would you let her go there after all you said about them?’

Her hands were in her hair and her voice was croaky. ‘I couldn’t stop her.’

‘Was it this boy? Did he get her involved?’

‘It was nothing like that, Joe.’ It was the first time she’d said his name for so long. And he waited for her to go on, hardly daring to breathe. She still had the wet tissues in one hand and she looked down at them dripping onto the dressing table. Finally, she placed the soggy mess in front of her, shaking her head and wiping her hand on her skirt. When she turned her eyes were glassy.

‘She went looking for her real father. Wanted to find her biological dad.’ He couldn’t breathe. Just waited. Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear. ‘She thought it was one of them – at The Children.’

Breathe, say something. ‘And was he? Did she find him?’ He’d never asked her about this other man. It never seemed to matter – before. ‘You’ve got to tell me, Hannah. And tell the police. If she found him, you must know what that means. Talk to me, Hannah, please.’

She stood, but her face was blank again and she was staring past him, shaking her head. ‘I can’t. I can’t talk about that.’

He was on his feet too; part of him wanting to hold her, to tell her it was all right. Another part wanting to shake her, to wake her up and make her think of Lily.

He was so tired.

She clutched herself and pushed past him, and he heard the click as she locked the bathroom door.

Rosie

‘Oliver and I are planning to move abroad.’ Rosie expected her mother to turn to her, say something, start to cry even, but she just trudged onwards. Rosie had called her that morning, suggesting a walk and, knowing what she was going to say, she had winced at Marion’s obvious delight.

‘Oh, darling, yes, that’d be lovely. Let’s go to Rye Harbour. The wild flowers at the nature reserve will be beautiful just now. I’ll come and pick you up.’

They didn’t talk much during the drive and it wasn’t until they were walking along the main path towards the sea, the salt marshes on their right and the river on their left, that Rosie broke the silence. It had turned chilly and their only company was a couple of small boats chugging down river to the sea and some little black-and-white seabirds shrilling overhead. The flowers her mother had hoped for were there, but their colours were muted in the mottled light, their petals bothered by the breeze.

Rosie pulled her collar around her throat, but Marion, in only a light jumper and cotton trousers, seemed oblivious to the cold. She had been tall and curvy when Rosie and Alice were young, but the weight had dropped off her when all the trouble began, even before the murder. She had become a little healthier-looking in the last few years. But to Rosie’s eyes she seemed almost frail today.

They walked on, until they reached the beach, its shingle falling in a steep slope to the sea. On the opposite side of the river, the sands of Camber stretched into the distance. When they were little, Rosie and Alice always wanted to go there instead of walking the ‘more interesting’ route their dad preferred on this side. At Camber Sands, even though they couldn’t see them from here, were ice cream kiosks and shops selling blow-up boats and plastic buckets and spades. But she didn’t want to think about that, so she looked along the sands to the horizon and stared hard at the nuclear power station crouched over Dungeness.

‘Did you hear me, Mum?’

Marion had been gazing in the other direction, over the marshy nature reserve to the wooden birdwatching hide and the Martello tower. ‘Sorry, darling, what?’

‘I said, we’re going to live abroad.’ She told herself to say it all, get it out. ‘With him living so close, and you sheltering him, it doesn’t feel safe, especially for Fay.’

Marion lurched down the shingle bank towards the water and Rosie followed, pushing her heels into the stones to stop herself from slithering too fast. She raised her voice. ‘It’s no good running away. You need to listen.’

When Marion turned back her mouth was a tight line, her hands clutched under her armpits. Her voice fierce. ‘No, Rosemary, you need to listen. I was so angry when Alice died that I had to find someone to blame and, when they told me it was your dad, I believed them because I hated him at that moment. Our lives were a mess and, after all I’d done to support him, I thought he was having an affair.’

Rosie slid down to her, grabbing the tops of her arms. ‘What?’

Her mother gave a harsh laugh. ‘The big argument we had was because I was sure he had another woman.’ She pulled away, trudging off along the pebbly bank as Rosie stood staring after her, trying to understand what she had heard.

During the trial, and immediately afterwards, the papers were full of rumours about her dad’s secret life. As well as stories suggesting he might have been abusing Alice and possibly some of his pupils, there was stuff about her parents’ marriage being in a rocky state because of his infidelity. Rosie and her mother had never discussed any of it.

Rosie followed her. She could hardly get the words out. ‘Why did you never tell me this, Mum?’

Her mother spoke slowly as she struggled to keep her footing on the shingle slope. ‘The way he was behaving made me sure there must be someone else, but he denied it. I told him he had to move out anyway, and I went away that weekend so he could tell you and Alice.’ She stopped, looking down at the pebbles, churning them with her foot and clutching herself. Her back looked so fragile as the breeze pressed the thin wool of her jumper against the ridges on her spine that Rosie’s throat ached.

Her dad’s story had been that he was at two different supermarkets at the time Alice must have been killed, but there was no evidence to place him at the first shop, which meant that forty minutes or so were unaccounted for. Rosie had known her mum and dad weren’t getting on in the months before the murder. But she and Alice had had no inkling about a mistress. Apart from the hints in the papers, the first real suggestion of it was six years ago. A television programme set out to prove he was innocent and raised the possibility that he was with another woman during those missing forty minutes. But it wasn’t very convincing because he refused to speak to them and, although two of his friends told them they suspected he was having an affair, they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, name the woman. So, the TV people couldn’t even guess at her identity.

‘Was he? Having an affair, I mean.’

‘Apparently, although he only admitted it to me recently. When I went to see him in prison.’

‘And I suppose he told you he was with her when Alice was killed. Just like that TV programme said, but he didn’t think to mention it to the police at the time? You don’t really believe that, do you?’

Marion shook her head. ‘It was all such a mess. In his first interview, he wanted to keep her name out of it. Didn’t think it mattered because he never imagined he could be a suspect. When he realized it was getting more serious he called her and asked her to back him up, but she was married and, of course, she didn’t want to get involved in a murder case. His defence counsel told him then that it would do more harm than good if he changed his story without anyone to corroborate it.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the police about her?’

‘Like I said, he had denied it and I had no idea he was going to see her that day. Anyway, when I first spoke to the police, before they convinced me he must have done it, I thought it was best if I said our marriage and family life were fine. Didn’t want them to know how difficult things were for all of us.’

‘So what you’re saying is that you don’t actually know if this woman is real. And that, even if she is, you only have his word for it that he was with her on the day Alice was killed.’

With a jerk that made Rosie start, her mother headed back up the beach. ‘I’m cold. Let’s go home.’

Rosie scrambled after her, and by the time they reached the car park, they were both breathless.

Marion drove through the gate so fiercely she almost hit a cyclist. She pulled the car to one side and dragged on the handbrake then sat, still breathing hard, hands flat on the wheel. ‘Look, Rosemary, you have to talk to him: talk to your dad. He still is your dad, you know.’ It was clear she was struggling to keep her voice steady, and Rosie bit back what she was tempted to say. It wasn’t worth it.

But her mother took another wavering breath and carried on. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you: he explained everything to me and I believe him. He didn’t do it. On the day it happened he had been with her, his woman, for the forty minutes when he claimed he was at the first supermarket. That’s why he only had time to buy a few things. Just enough to make you girls think he’d been shopping.’

She gave a smile that was more like a wince. ‘Instead of cooking, he tells me, he was planning to take you and Alice out for lunch on Sunday, to tell you we were breaking up. And if I’d spoken up for him about those ridiculous rumours that he had been abusing Alice, they wouldn’t have got any traction. That was what that TV programme said, wasn’t it? And they were right.’

‘So you never believed he abused Alice?’

Her mother shook her head. ‘No. I was just so angry with him. He couldn’t help his illness, but he hadn’t even tried to find work that would use his talents properly and bring in some decent money. If he had you could have gone back to your old school and we wouldn’t have been in danger of losing our home.

‘Then I guessed he was being unfaithful. Getting ready to ruin all our lives and that brought me close to hating him. And, Rosemary, although I knew he wouldn’t have abused Alice, I did think he could have killed her. Not deliberately, but he had a temper and she could be really difficult. You know how she was with him sometimes. Just like she was with you. Pushing and pushing to get a reaction.’

This time, Rosie couldn’t stop herself from sighing, and Marion’s hands clenched.

‘I know he’s innocent and if you talked to him, just once, you’d understand.’

Rosie met her mother’s eyes and held her gaze for a long moment. She could feel, and hear, the deep, deep, beat of her own heart and found herself saying, ‘All right, let’s go there now. I’ll talk to him.’

As Marion negotiated the sharp bends on the country roads from Rye, Rosie looked out of the car window, trying to calm down.

After the trial, Marion and Rosie had moved from the village to a flat in Bexhill, wanting to put a bit of distance between themselves and the whole business. Her mother suggested going much further, maybe to London or even to Leeds, where she’d worked for a while and had some friends, but Rosie insisted on staying at the same school. She’d had to move once and she didn’t see why she should do it again. And wherever she went, people were bound to find out about Alice and her dad in the end.

What impulse had made her agree to see him, she couldn’t understand, but maybe it was better this way. Get it all out in the open.

They were coming away from the countryside, passing a garden centre, a tatty looking pub and rows of semi-detached houses and Rosie closed her eyes and let herself remember again.

* * *

She is sitting with Dad on the sofa in the kitchen. Alice is dead. Yesterday, someone beat her over the head and now she’s dead. It’s impossible, but it must be true because there’s police all over the house and a detective wants to talk to her.

Dad is holding her hand. It’s a bit sticky and warm, but his is cold. He looks awful. Hasn’t shaved this morning and he always shaves. But his voice is the same. ‘Just answer the detective’s questions, Rosemary, don’t be scared.’

The man is big and friendly looking with a nice smile. He grabs one of the chairs from next to the table and puts it down in front of her. When he sits on it he’s too close, but he smells nice and his voice is gentle. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Miller,’ his smile widens, ‘Paul Miller. And you’re Rosemary. Or do you prefer Rosie?’

‘I don’t mind.’ She coughs and Dad smiles at her and gives her hand a squeeze. ‘Rosie’s OK,’ she says.

‘Fine. So, Rosie, your Dad took you for your tennis lesson, is that right?’ She nods. ‘But you came back by bus. Why was that?’

‘Dad said he had to go shopping and might not be finished in time.’ She leans back on the cushions, her heart beating a little slower.

‘Right. Now I noticed there was a shopping list attached to the fridge door. Do you know who wrote that?’

‘Mum did it on Friday before she left. It was the things she wanted Dad to get for the weekend.’ She is finding it easier to breathe now. This will soon be over.

But her dad sits forward, his voice hard. ‘I can’t see what this has to do with anything.’

Detective Miller puts up his hand to stop Dad, but keeps his eyes on Rosie. Still with that encouraging smile. ‘So, your mum told your dad that she’d made a list and he should take it with him to the shops on Saturday?’

‘Yes.’ A movement from Dad. ‘I mean, I think so. She wrote the list and I saw her put it on the fridge, but I can’t remember if she told Dad.’ Rosie’s heart is beating faster again. She’s said something wrong.

Dad sits back, his breath loud, and the detective says, ‘Not much longer now, Rosie. Just take me through what happened when you arrived home.’ She looks at Dad and he gives her a smile, but he’s worried. She can see that.

Detective Miller says, ‘Rosie?’ and when she turns back to him he nods. ‘Go on, just take me through it step by step and we’re done.’

A deep breath. ‘Well, when I got to the front door I rang the bell because I knew Alice was at home. I could hear her music playing really loud in the front room, but she didn’t open the door so I let myself in. I didn’t want to talk to her because I knew she’d be in a mood, and Dad wasn’t back, so I went straight upstairs.’

She knows that’s the wrong thing again when Dad’s hand clenches on hers, remembers what he said last night and turns towards him her heart thumping. He’s looking straight ahead. He won’t look back. The detective smiles at her. She swallows, but her voice croaks anyway. ‘It was only a few minutes before Dad got in, though. Wasn’t it, Dad?’

The detective says, ‘Your dad can talk to us later. I’d like your estimate of how long it was before he arrived.’

He’s nodding, trying to seem friendly, but she can hardly breathe. Feels Dad, very still, beside her. ‘Um, I don’t remember. I wasn’t thinking.’

The detective is still looking at her with a faint smile. ‘Well, about how many minutes would you say it was, Rosie?’

Her breath catches in her throat and it’s difficult to speak, but she has to tell him something. ‘About ten?’ She can’t breathe at all now, because that’s too many, but manages to say: ‘No, not as many as ten. Probably only five or six.’

‘You’re sure of that are you, love?’

All she can say is: ‘I think so,’ in a wobbly voice.

Dad’s hand grips hers and, when she sneaks a peek at him, she can see his neck is mottled with red, the way it goes when he gets cross. ‘Please don’t badger my daughter, Inspector. She’s given you her estimate.’

And they let her stop then, but she knows she’s done it all wrong.

Chapter Seven

Loretta

Loretta made a point of straightening her shoulders and smiling at Tony, the desk sergeant, as she walked into the nick. ‘Morning, Tony. How’s it going?’

‘Morning, Loretta. Can’t complain.’ He wasn’t a bad guy, but when she pushed through the double doors, it was just her luck to collide with Maggie and Les.

Maggie looked Loretta up and down. ‘Like the jacket, Lorry. Suits you. Must be nice to get out of uniform.’ She was the one who’d thought up the nickname, pretending it was affectionate. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Loretta’s such a mouthful.’ And the cartoon – stuck on the noticeboard on Loretta’s birthday – of her face on the front of a truck with a bulbous arse in place of the back end. The wording, ‘Many Happy Returns to Our Lovely Lorry’, doing nothing to disguise the malicious intent – they knew they wouldn’t get away with anything openly racist. Now Les, the sidekick, stood smirking, waiting to see her reaction.

‘Thanks. Yeah, it does make a change. You should go for the FLO training yourself, Maggie. What with your people skills.’ Smile, show you’re not bothered. It was what she told her kids, but it wasn’t easy. Thank God for Andy, coming out of the Gents with a big generous smile to match his big generous body. He bumped her with his shoulder as they walked towards the DCI’s office, letting her know he was on her side. But he didn’t speak till they were out of earshot of Maggie and Les.

‘Did Philips call you in?’

‘Yeah, do you know what’s up?’

‘The main man from The Children of Light is in there with him. Not too happy by the look of him. Have you been to see them?’

‘’Course not. I’m sticking with the family.’

‘Oh, well, you’re probably all right then.’

She didn’t feel all right and she stood outside the office for a long minute, wondering what she’d done. She took a deep breath and knocked, waited, then knocked again, before opening the door. ‘Sir, I …’

Although Philips was flapping his hand at her and saying, ‘Yes, Constable, come in, come in,’ it was the other man who attracted her attention. As she walked into the room, he stood and held out his hand. She resisted the urge to wipe her damp palm on her trousers.

She’d seen this man: Pastor Jerome, they called him on those posters The Children of Light plastered up in various places in the town. He was on the Internet too, but she hadn’t realized how tall he was. Close on six five, at a guess, and broad, though not fat.

He gestured to a chair, but she looked towards Philips. ‘This is Pastor Jerome, Constable. Constable Loretta Peterson, sir.’ He paused while they nodded at each other, Loretta very aware of the pastor’s eyes sizing her up.

‘Sit down, Constable, this concerns you too.’ The edge on Philips’s voice told her she needed to be wary.

Although he was a huge man, the pastor didn’t stretch his legs or splay them out, invading her space the way some guys did. She was very aware of his breathing and the heat of him, but forced herself to focus on Philips.

‘The pastor has come in about the Lily Marsden case. Apparently, Mr Marsden visited The Children of Light’s headquarters yesterday, asking questions. He was quite aggressive. Seems he found out Lily had been there and—’

‘I gather Joe had been told about Lily’s connection with us by you,’ the pastor said and his chair creaked as he turned to her, but she kept her eyes on Philips: he hated to be interrupted. But Jerome was clearly used to taking charge of a conversation. ‘And, Loretta,’ his use of her first name startled her into meeting his eyes, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but we don’t much care for formalities in our group. When Lily joined us she was adamant that her family shouldn’t be told.’ His smile flashed like a blade.

‘That’s hardly relevant now, sir? And a 14-year-old shouldn’t be encouraged to keep secrets like that. Joining a sect is a serious business.’

The pastor pulled his feet back under his chair, and his fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to clench into fists. Philips was needling him and getting the upper hand. Loretta might have enjoyed it, but she was all too aware that as soon as Jerome left she could be in the firing line. Oh well, might as well go for it.

‘What we’d like to know, sir, is about her boyfriend, Samuel Barnes, who is part of your group. Can you tell us where to find him? I’m sure you realize he could be a vital witness – to her state of mind and so on.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve been misled. Samuel may have met Lily, but that’s all. We don’t encourage anything more than respectful fellowship between the sexes. Our unmarried members remain celibate and youngsters are always chaperoned.’ This was addressed not to her but to Philips, their eyes still locked together.

‘Lily’s friends are sure Samuel was her boyfriend.’

Jerome turned to her, making a show of the fact that she had his complete attention. ‘Well, Loretta, have you thought that maybe Lily used Samuel as a way to explain her joining our group? It can be difficult for our young converts to admit an attraction to something so different from the normal teenage interests.’

Philips was getting impatient. ‘What do you know about Lily’s biological father? We gather she was born when her mother, Hannah, was one of your group.’

‘Yes, Hannah Leigh, as she was then, was pregnant when she arrived and never spoke about the father. We certainly didn’t press her on the subject.’

‘Still, we will need to talk to this …’ Philips looked down at a piece of paper on his desk. ‘Samuel Barnes. And to interview anyone who knew Hannah, or Lily, at your organization.’

The pastor smiled. ‘Of course, we’ll cooperate. As far as our rules allow, that is.’ Philips let that one go. ‘But, Samuel, I’m afraid, is no longer with us.’

‘No longer at your farm, or no longer one of your members? Perhaps living at one of your other houses?’ Loretta asked.

Jerome swivelled to face her again, still with that superior smile. ‘Now there you have me. I’ll need to check on that.’

* * *

‘Not so fast, Constable.’ Loretta had hoped to get out as soon as the pastor left, but Philips obviously wasn’t finished with her. ‘What were you up to, telling the father about the girl’s links with that lot?’

‘I thought he would know about the boyfriend already.’

‘Well, next time think a bit more carefully, will you. He’s still the most likely doer, so it’s down to you to get information out of him, not to let him pump you.’

‘OK, sir. Sorry.’

‘Right, just watch it. The Children of Light is a powerful organization and the pastor has the money and the contacts to make our life difficult.’ Loretta nodded and he continued. ‘You need to focus on the parents. Get the name of the real father out of the mother for a start. I’ll bet it was one of those characters the blessed Jerome is so adamant are celibate. So, stop farting about and get her talking.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Best to say as little as possible when he was in this kind of mood.

‘And really work on the husband too. There’s fibres and DNA all over her clothes, so someone was up close and personal. Let’s hope we can match them to Joe Marsden. Unless, of course, she tracked down the real father. If he is one of The Children of Light and she found him and threatened to expose him as not quite so celibate after all, that would put the frighteners on him well and truly.’

‘The dad, Joe, was in Cumbria doing a land survey for the three days before the murder, though.’

‘Working on his own in the middle of a field. Yeah – great alibi. And he’s self-employed so there’s no boss we can check with. If you and forensics would just pull your fingers out, we could have this sorted in no time. Get on with it, will you?’

Joe

The only place he could relax a bit these days was in the shower, and as he stripped off, Joe thought he’d never been so clean. In here, with the warm water hissing over him, he could think and even allow himself to feel. And he needed to do that right now. The FLO had been with them all day, trying to get Hannah to tell her who Lily’s real dad was. He’d tried to eavesdrop, but Loretta took Hannah into the living room and closed the door.

Hannah stayed in there when Loretta came out, just staring at the wall, as far as he could see. Loretta asked him to make them all some tea, then started on at him. Going over the same old stuff; asking the same things in different ways. Always with a casual smile, so you couldn’t let your guard down for a minute.

How did he and Hannah get together?

He saw her walking down a country road in the pouring rain with a baby in a buggy and gave her a lift.

Why didn’t they have more kids?

It never happened and Lily was enough for both of them.

How did he feel about Lily getting a boyfriend?

Like he said before, he didn’t know, but he would have been OK with it.

And on and on until they both became aware of a phone ringing inside her bag. She grabbed the bag, scrabbled to get the phone just as it stopped, took a quick look, and said, ‘Sorry about that, Joe.’ But it gave him the chance to get up and open the fridge, making it clear he had things to do.

She sighed. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Then grabbed her coat, her bag and waved her phone at him as she dashed out. ‘Call me if you think of anything more, or if Hannah needs me.’

They thought it was him. However concerned Loretta pretended to be, however many times the Chief Inspector or Detective Sergeant Davis told him the questions, and the DNA tests, the searches of his computer, his bank statements and whatnot, were just to eliminate them from our enquiries, it was obvious they wanted to catch him out.

The sobs came then. And he stood with the water gushing over his face, washing his tears down the drain, which was where they belonged, for all the good they did. And that was the worst of it: the helplessness. It was all right for them. If they locked him up, put him away, they could say they’d got a result and could forget about Lily too.

He switched off the shower, sitting, still wet, on the edge of the bath – ‘Oh, Lily’ – his hands clenched on the cool enamel as he swayed back and forth. He’d lost Hannah too, lost the woman he loved. Because the bastard who killed their lovely girl had destroyed them. Killed everything that mattered to them.

He stood and pulled a big towel round him. Thinking like this was no use. He rubbed his hair and face. The towel didn’t smell too good; he’d have to do some more washing. Had to look after Hannah.

He never wanted to come out of the bathroom when he’d finished. But then he would get into a panic, thinking Hannah might have done something desperate while he wasn’t there to keep an eye on her. But when he opened the door this time she was just outside, holding his towelling dressing gown.

‘Hannah, love, you gave me a shock.’ Please, don’t walk away. Talk to me.

She was looking at the carpet, but she gave him the dressing gown. ‘Here, you need this.’ Her voice was barely there, but at least she was speaking to him and, as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, she stayed where she was. When he tied the belt, and let the towel slip to the floor, she picked it up. ‘Towel needs a wash. I’ve been leaving it all to you. I’m sorry, Joe.’

‘It doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I’m just so scared when you won’t talk to me.’ He swallowed. ‘Hannah, you don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?’

Her eyes met his, her hand at her mouth. ‘Is that what you’ve been thinking? Oh, no, of course I don’t. Oh, Joe …’ And there, in the little hallway, with the bathroom door handle pressing into his back, she came into his arms and rested her head, where it fitted so naturally, into the hollow under his shoulder.

Rosie

As her mum pulled into the car park of the modern block of seafront flats in Bexhill, Rosie came back from her memories. This was where she’d lived with Marion in the years after it happened as they’d tried to make some kind of life and forget all about Rosie’s father. Marion said that was the only thing they could do. Remember Alice and forget her killer.

But a few months ago, she’d announced she’d been to visit her ex-husband in jail, that he was getting out and that – unbelievably – he was coming to live with her. ‘Because, after talking to him, I realize he didn’t do it and now we’ve got the chance to make amends.’

Neither Rosie nor Oliver could understand what had happened. Oliver said the old man must have spun Marion some line. She said he looked terrible, so maybe a mixture of pity and guilt had made her willing to believe any rubbish he told her.

But what on earth had made Rosie agree to come? The complete change in her mother’s attitude baffled her, but she knew nothing her father said could make a difference to the way she felt. She scrabbled in her bag for a bottle of water and swigged at it, making Marion wait to lock the car.

Rosie’s legs felt weak as they toiled up the three flights of familiar stairs to the flat, and outside the door, as Marion fumbled with her key, she had to steady herself on the wall.

The door opened straight into the living room. And there he was.

His eyes were closed, thank God, so she could look at him before he saw her. What she’d expected she wasn’t sure, but he seemed hardly to have changed. His shoulders filled the winged armchair and his long legs, clad in jeans, were stretched out in front: just the way he always used to sit.

He was 63 and her mum said he’d been ill, hinting he might even be dying. Although he was thinner he looked healthy enough to Rosie. Except for his hands, which had been turned into swollen-knuckled claws by the arthritis. The arthritis that forced him to retire from playing the violin and leave the orchestra. The start of all the bad times.

Marion gave his arm a gentle shake. ‘Look, dear, it’s Rosemary come to see you.’ She spoke as if to a child, or someone senile, as she plumped a cushion on the sofa facing his chair. ‘Sit down, love, and I’ll get us all some tea.’ Rosie carried on standing, arms crossed.

When Bernard opened his eyes, she could see changes there. They looked opaque, as if he had cataracts, and a web of fine lines covered his face. But he pushed himself up to sit higher in the armchair with a vigorous movement.

‘Well, this is a surprise.’ His voice brought the past back so vividly that Rosie felt herself flinch.

‘Hello, Dad.’ What else could she say?

He had the grace to look down and run his crooked fingers through his hair. He still had hair, she noticed, although it was thinner and iron-grey with no traces of brown.

‘Rosemary, it’s good to see you. I didn’t expect …’ He glanced towards the kitchen where water splashed and crockery clattered.

Rosie tried to slow her breathing. She told herself she was an adult now. ‘I just came to ask what you’re playing at. You see, I’m confused. First, you spend years denying everything, letting me and Mum go through all kinds of agony, then you admit it. And now you’re saying you were innocent all along. It just doesn’t make sense.’

He shifted in the armchair. ‘It’s been hard on the two of you, I know.’

Rosie felt his eyes on her, but refused to look at him, gazing instead over to the picture window at the silhouette of a boat moving across the grey sea. She was tired and longed to sit down, but – no – it wouldn’t do to come down to his level.

The view was the only thing she had ever liked about the flat, but today the sea was still – a strip of corrugated metal – and when the boat moved out of view there was nothing else to look at. She stayed where she was as her dad kept talking.

‘You see, at the end, when your mother came to visit me, I realized I had to get out. And if you keep maintaining your innocence, they say you’re in denial and the parole board won’t even consider recommending you for release.’

Rosie couldn’t hold back a tiny laugh. That tone, so superior, how well she remembered it. She forced herself to look hard at him. ‘You told them you did it so you could get out, but at the same time you were saying you were innocent to Mum? I don’t suppose that had anything to do with the fact that she wouldn’t take you in if she still thought you killed Alice?’

As he shook his head she realized there had been a slight tremor there all along, so maybe he was ill. She stopped the thought. His health has nothing to do with any of this. ‘With Mum going on about it these last weeks, I’ve been thinking back and I remember worrying because I might have got you into trouble, somehow, by saying the wrong thing. You seemed very keen to make sure the police thought we’d got back home at more or less the same time. Why was that?’

Marion was beside her, sliding a tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits onto the glass table in front of Bernard. She sat on the armchair next to him, so close their knees touched, reaching out to take his hand.

But he carried on looking at Rosie: unblinking. His only movement was that gentle shake of his head. The silence and the look seemed to go on forever as if he wanted to read Rosie’s mind. ‘I was trying to protect you. To make sure they didn’t upset you.’

Marion broke the silence. ‘Go on, Bernard, love, tell her.’ Then, without waiting for him to speak, she turned to her daughter, eyes wide, lashes flicking furiously. ‘He’s got proof. He can show you.’

Bernard placed his other hand on top of Marion’s for a moment. Then moved both hands away and folded them under his chin, the way he used to when she or Alice asked for extra pocket money. ‘I’m sorry, Marion, my love. I’m sorry, Rosemary, but I don’t think I should say anything more.’

Rosie turned to leave.

‘No, darling, don’t go … Bernard, tell her,’ Marion said. ‘About the letters.’

Her mother was pulling at his sleeve like a little girl, but his eyes were still on Rosie. He spoke slowly and steadily. ‘I got a series of letters, while I was inside. As time went by it became clear they were from someone who knew the truth.’

Rosie allowed herself to meet his eyes. A long moment passed. ‘OK, let me see them.’

His voice was very soft. ‘Can’t you take my word? Mine and your mother’s?’

Marion’s head jerked round to look at her. ‘I’ve seen them. It’s true. You’ve got to believe us.’

This was ridiculous. ‘But they censor mail in prison. Someone would have seen.’

He smiled at her very gently. ‘They were brought to me by my solicitor and, anyway, they were too vague for anyone who wasn’t involved to understand the subtext.’

Subtext, Christ, he was giving her a lecture. ‘But not too vague for you or Mum?’

Marion, now, her voice breathy. ‘That’s right. The final letters anyway. It was obvious to me.’

Rosie’s throat seemed to have closed up, but she managed to say: ‘What was obvious?’

‘That whoever wrote them could prove your dad was innocent.’

It had felt draughty where Rosie stood near the door, but suddenly the room seemed stifling and she wanted only to get out, to get away from here, but she had to go on. ‘So who wrote them? Who did they say did it?’

Instead of answering, her mother made a little noise and turned away. Her husband touched her hand, looking steadily at Rosie. ‘The letters were anonymous, and they didn’t identify the killer.’

Her mother’s voice was gruff. ‘But it was clear they knew. And yet he’s prepared to leave it like that. Didn’t even want me to tell you.’

Her dad’s eyes were unwavering. ‘Your mother got herself into a bit of a state. And I don’t want you to go through that.’ He looked back at Marion and rested his clawed hand on her knee. ‘It’s past history and digging it up will do more harm than good.’

For some reason Rosie wanted to cry. Why were they still keeping things from her? What did they have to hide? ‘Is that it? Well then, I’m sorry, Mum. If that’s the best there is …’ She willed him to meet her eyes again, but she might have been invisible. ‘It’s just not enough.’ As she turned there was a whimper from her mother.

Before she closed the door she heard her father’s voice, not a tremble in it. ‘It’s all right, darling. Let her go.’

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