Isolated
The Missing Children Case Files
M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © M. A. Hunter 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Oote Boe Photography/Alamy Stock Photo (background), Shutterstock.com (doll)

M. A. Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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.

Source ISBN: 9780008443306

Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008443290

Version: 2020-12-15

Content notices: suicide, domestic violence, paedophilia, sexual assault.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

Dedicated to all who work in the

UK Criminal Justice System.

Thank you for keeping us safe.

A white well

In a black cave;

A bright shell

In a dark wave.

A white rose

Black brambles hood;

Smooth bright snows

In a dark wood.

— Incantation, Elinor Wylie

Chapter One
Then

Bovington Garrison, Dorset

The spiky twigs scratched at Natalie’s face as she raced further into the pitch-black forest, trying to claw her back to where she daren’t return. Her chest burned with fatigue, but the burst of adrenalin brought on by the sheer terror of what she’d just witnessed prevented her aching legs from stopping. Pumping her arms, she willed the never-ending darkness to evaporate, but as she tried to focus on any sign of the path she’d come in on, the darkness swallowed up the ground ahead.

She’d known it had been a bad idea to venture out here at the bewitching hour; she’d wanted to tell the others that she wouldn’t be a part of it, but they’d insisted and had muttered amongst themselves when they’d sensed her reticence. Whilst Natalie didn’t necessarily know what those mutterings were, she knew the other three well enough to understand the grumbling to be about her perceived weakness. And Natalie accepted that as the youngest in the group, she would forever be the weakest link, and in order to gain their acceptance, she would occasionally have to ignore her own feelings.

As another branch scratched at her cheek, catching her just below the eye, she wished she’d never agreed to sneak out in the middle of the night and join them. If her parents ever learned of her deceit, she would be grounded for the rest of her life – and her dad’s belt would seek out its own punishment.

‘Your parents will never know,’ Sally Curtis had said at lunchtime on Friday as they’d stood behind the sports hall, pretending to smoke.

Natalie hated the taste of the cigarettes that Sally pinched from her mum when her back was turned. Every morning, Natalie would promise herself that today would be the day when she told them that she didn’t want to smoke, but her willpower would wane when she’d see them exchanging glances, certain that if she didn’t go with them she’d inevitably end up as the chosen subject of conversation. At least they weren’t brave enough to gossip about her when she was in their presence.

Natalie’s foot caught on a thick root, and then she was flailing… falling through the air, with nothing to stop her. Her palms bore the brunt of the tumble, but her chin and chest took up the slack. Every part of her stung, but she was too tired to get up and keep moving. If it was fate’s choice that it all end here and now, then so be it; she wouldn’t fight it.

Lying still, her breath catching, she rolled onto her back, hoping to reclaim the wind that had been knocked from her. Through the towering bare branches, the large saucer of moon stared down at her, but for all its brightness, it offered little guidance to where the main path was. She was certain they hadn’t come this far into the woods. The walk to the clearing had only taken a few minutes so she should have found the entrance by now. Was she running around in circles? With the ground covered in dried branches and decaying leaves, it was impossible to know exactly how straight and level her running had been. What if she never found her way out?

No, that was a silly thought. Daylight would eventually come and at that point she’d be able to figure a way out. The forest couldn’t have been much wider than a mile in any direction, so with daylight she’d find a way to the edge, whether it was the side she wanted to be on or not.

Her palms were still stinging, the icy air swirling around her only heightening the warmth of the grazes. She was certain her hands must be bleeding, but even when holding them up to the moonlight it was impossible to distinguish blood from mud.

She should never have let Louise take the torch. Three fourteen-year-old girls, and she – at thirteen, the youngest by four months – was the only one to think a torch would be a good idea.

Bloody Louise! She hadn’t always been such a cow to Natalie. Back before Sally Curtis’s family had moved onto the base, Louise and Natalie had been best friends. But then Sally, with her blonde mop of curls and rapidly sprouting chest had turned up in September, and suddenly everything had changed.

Not afraid to challenge the rules and push boundaries, Sally soon latched on to Louise, who was only too happy to be led. Jane also welcomed an extra member to the group, especially as Sally had that je ne sais quoi that had all the boys tripping over themselves to please her. Jane welcomed Sally Curtis, because Sally’s lack of need of padding somehow elevated the rest of them. Not Natalie, of course, whose chest, she felt, would remain flat as a pancake for all time.

Branches snapping somewhere off to her left had Natalie’s head snapping round, her own breathing instantly silenced. Was it possible they weren’t the only ones who’d come into the woods on this dark night? Natalie focused on the black hole where she was sure she’d heard the movement, but couldn’t make out a thing.

Maybe it was just a wild animal – a squirrel or rabbit of some sort. Yes, that had to be it. Certainly not the ferocious wolf-like creature with blood dripping from its fangs that she was desperately trying not to picture. No, wild beasts like that were things of lame horror movies and books.

Right?

More snapping – this time only yards from Natalie’s feet – had her breath puffing out like a steam engine, and she clamped her eyes shut, covering her face with her hands, hoping that whatever bloodthirsty beast it was would simply pass her by.

‘I’ve found her.’ Louise’s voice carried on the wind, and a moment later, woollen gloves were tearing at Natalie’s hands as she screamed and kicked out in desperate survival. ‘Natalie, stop, it’s us.’

Natalie didn’t dare to believe it, and squinting up at the torchlight, she’d never felt so relieved to see Louise and a panting Jane crouching beside her.

‘What happened to you?’ Louise asked, deliberately shining the torchlight into Natalie’s eyes, until she batted it away. ‘One minute you were there and the next you were gone.’

Natalie really couldn’t explain exactly why she’d started to run, at least not in any coherent manner, so she bit her tongue instead, recognising the warm feeling between her legs and hoping the darkness would hide the patch that had to be forming in the crotch of her black jeans.

‘I fell,’ Natalie said, pointing her palms towards the torchlight and seeing the grazes, which were far milder than she first feared. They certainly stung more than the dull redness would suggest.

‘Yes, well, what did you expect when you raced off without the torch? God knows how far into the forest we are now. Your inner compass was way off, mate. Come on, let’s get you up, and then the three of us can go home.’

Louise nodded at Jane, who promptly grabbed one of Natalie’s hands, ignoring the grimace as she squashed Natalie’s palm and tugged her to her feet. It was only now she was up that Natalie noticed the pain in her right leg, and as her two friends tried to pull her back into the thorn-like branches, she screeched with the pain.

‘What is it now?’ Louise huffed, stopping and pointing the light into Natalie’s eyes; a single tear rolled the length of Natalie’s cheek, before dropping from her chin.

Natalie snatched the torch and pointed it down towards her foot. Jane gasped as the beam highlighted the thin stake protruding from Natalie’s calf, the tip of it red as blood.

‘Oh, Jesus!’ the normally silent Jane exclaimed.

‘Oh, bloody brilliant!’ Louise echoed. ‘Look what you’ve gone and done to yourself now, Natalie. Well done!’

Natalie didn’t take well to the sarcastic tone, but was in too much pain and panic to retort. ‘I think I should go to the doctor.’

‘No,’ Louise snapped. ‘If you do that, you’ll have to explain how it happened, and then they’ll want to know exactly what we were all doing here in the woods when everybody else is in bed. No, Natalie. Just pull it out, and clean it up when you get home.’

‘I can barely walk, Louise.’

‘That’s because it’s still in there so your leg can’t begin to heal. Pull it out and everything will be better.’

‘But there might be splinters left inside. It could get infected.’

‘Don’t be such a wet blouse, Natalie. It’ll be fine. Come on, we don’t have long. You don’t want your parents to find out you snuck out after they’d gone to bed, do you?’

Natalie could easily imagine how angry her dad would get if he even suspected she’d snuck out. ‘No, of course I don’t.’

‘Well then, what are you going to do?’ Louise sighed, and her tone was more empathetic when she spoke next. ‘Listen, I’m sure it does hurt, but we can’t stay here and wait until it gets light. Why don’t you pull it out now, then me and Jane can help you get back to the fence, and we can all sneak back through and into our homes. Then, in the morning when we’re walking to school, we can pretend like you’ve done it then and get the nurse at school to look at it.’ She paused and checked her watch. ‘It’s nearly 2am, which means we’ll be at school in less than seven hours. Right? Surely it won’t get infected in seven hours?’

Natalie had to admit there was some logic in Louise’s argument, and she knew that if she didn’t agree there was a chance Louise and Jane would just leave her here in the woods to hobble home alone.

‘Okay, okay,’ she puffed, the winding she’d sustained finally easing. ‘Shine the torch at it, will you?’

Louise obliged, and as Natalie reached down to the jagged shard, the second she touched it a burning sensation shot up the length of her leg.

‘I can’t do it,’ Natalie admitted in defeat. ‘One of you is going to have to pull it out. Please?’

Louise leaned down and studied the bloody branch before declaring, ‘Jane, you pull it out.’

‘What?’ Jane pleaded. ‘Why me?’

‘Because I’m holding the torch, obviously,’ Louise argued, though it was clear to both of her friends that Louise was as freaked out about the blood as the rest of them.

Not one to cause a fuss, Jane crouched down, coiled her hand around the shard and yanked it out without even warning Natalie.

Natalie yelped in agony, unable to hold back her tears any longer as Jane lifted up the shard of wood, no longer than a cigarette. Up close it didn’t look like it could have caused so much pain.

Looping Natalie’s arms over their shoulders, the two girls supported their friend back to the main path and ten minutes later they emerged from the all-enveloping forest, back at the perimeter fence through which they’d crawled an hour earlier.

‘We’ll have to be quick,’ Louise warned. ‘The security guards will be due to complete their hourly perimeter check soon. Jane, you go through first. Then it’s back to our homes, into bed, and then we never speak of this night again.’

‘Wait,’ Natalie challenged, propping herself against the fence to take the weight off her bloody limb. ‘What about Sally?’

Louise’s eyes grew dark as she lashed out and slapped Natalie hard across the face, almost sending her tumbling back to the ground. ‘Sally was never here. Is that clear? We must all swear a pact – here and now – that we were never in these woods tonight. So long as we sneak back into our homes, nobody will be any the wiser.’

‘But Sal—’ Natalie began to say, before Louise’s raised hand cut her off.

‘She was never here.’

Chapter Two
Now

Chalfont St Giles, Buckinghamshire

Jack races around to his side of the car and jumps in, with me following suit. ‘If we’re lucky we can be in Staffordshire before visiting hours finish at half four. I’ve got your name down on the list and Turgood knows you’re coming… Are you sure you want to meet him?’

Ordinarily, nothing would appal me more than coming face to face with the monster who oversaw a ring of abuse that lasted years in the former St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, but after Jack’s revelation minutes earlier, nobody is going to stop me from confronting him today.

‘I’m sure,’ I tell him, offering what I hope is a reassuring nod.

He stares at my trembling hands as I struggle to engage the seatbelt in its buckle and eventually I feel his warm hands on mine as he helps. I look into his face and see nothing but concern etched across those dark eyes. I nod again, more firmly this time, and he starts the engine.

‘You were looking for me,’ Jack says. ‘Earlier, I mean. When I arrived at the house, you said you needed to speak to me.’

I stare at him blankly, racking my brain for whatever that could have been about. The revelation that Jack has found my sister’s face in pornographic material discovered on Arthur Turgood’s hard drive has rather ripped the rug from beneath my feet. I try to recall what I was doing in the immediate past before Jack showed up at Fitzhume’s country manor.

As Jack races down the long gravel driveway, I catch a glimpse of a man in a dishevelled tuxedo stumbling along the road just beyond the gates and immediately recognise Richard Hilliard, the father of young Cassie, whose return was the reason for today’s gathering. I recall the slanging match between Richard and Fitzhume that I observed from the upstairs window of the manor and my subsequent encounter with Fitzhume slaps me between the eyes.

So you admit you were the one who set all this up? You put your granddaughter’s life at risk in order to force Richard out of your family?

‘Fitzhume is responsible for Cassie Hilliard’s abduction,’ I blurt out like some paranoid Twitter user.

Jack glances through the windscreen at Richard as we move past him. ‘I’m listening.’

I take a deep breath to try and steady my rapidly rising pulse. ‘It all makes sense, don’t you see? Leroy Denton told us that the group had some rich backer who was calling the shots but he didn’t know who that was. I bet if you ask Hank Amos whether he reached out to Lord Fitzhume and demanded more money, I bet he’ll admit he did. That’s what set these wheels in motion. That’s why Fitzhume came to me now, not because it happened to be the anniversary of Cassie’s abduction, but because he didn’t want to pay a second ransom.’

Jack doesn’t look convinced by my argument but switches off the car stereo so he can give me what’s left of his attention. ‘Amos said he didn’t know who the rich backer was either. Do you have anything evidential to support your theory? What makes you so certain?’

Her life should never have been in any danger. They were paid enough to take good care of her.

‘Fitzhume admitted as much to me,’ I say resolutely.

‘He did? You got him on the record?’

I again silently curse myself for not having the recorder on my phone running when I confronted him – not that it would necessarily have been strong enough evidence to go to trial.

‘Not exactly, but he did admit his involvement to me, and I’m prepared to make an official statement to that effect if that’s what it takes.’

I don’t know whether Jack realises his entire face has taken a sceptical downward turn, or whether he’s just doing a lousy job of covering his doubt.

‘Okay, I’ll put a call in to DCS Rawani and we’ll see if it’s enough to make him bite.’

‘Make him bite?’ I scoff. ‘You need to get someone over there right away and haul him out of his fake celebration in cuffs. Wipe that permanent smirk from his face.’

Jack catches my eye apologetically. ‘You know it isn’t that easy. I wish it were. I wish you making a statement about what he told you would be enough to prosecute but it’ll be his word against yours, and whilst your name is one of good standing, his background, links to the Royal Family and unlimited connections trump you.’

This isn’t the reaction I expected to hear from Jack. I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I thought I understood him.

‘Fitzhume is guilty as hell and someone needs to bring about his downfall,’ I spit. ‘If you won’t take action then I’ll just bloody well have to do something about it myself.’

I’m already asking myself exactly how I could complete such a course of action when Jack’s scepticism returns. But rather than berate me, he reaches for my hand and holds it for a moment.

‘I don’t doubt what you’re telling me, Emma, but I’m just trying to be realistic. We both reviewed the case file and there was nothing to link Fitzhume to the three kidnappers, one of whom is dead, and the other two now behind bars. Even if Amos came clean and pointed the finger at Fitzhume, the CPS would need something physical before even considering charges.’

‘So, what? He goes free?’

Jack opens his mouth to speak before thinking better of it.

‘Are you seriously telling me that because Fitzhume has money and power he’s allowed to get away with his crimes?’

Again, Jack opens his mouth to challenge, but raises his eyebrows in defeat instead. ‘As I said, I promise I will discuss it with the DCS once I’m back and if we’re lucky he’ll allow me to do some discreet digging, but something tells me that Fitzhume won’t have left any trail leading back to him – particularly if his military history is anything to go by.’

I pull my hand away and stare out of the window like a petulant teenager. I’m so fed up with people getting away with their crimes because of their so-called power and connections. I know my outlook is naïve, but shouldn’t the guilty be punished?

Fitzhume’s final words to me rattle in my head. You dare print a word of this and I will have you brought up on charges of libellous defamation.

Of course! As far as my publisher and agent Maddie are aware, I will be writing all about Cassie’s disappearance and subsequent return for my second book. The idea has been signed off by the publisher and they’ll be expecting me to deliver at least a first draft in the coming months. If the police won’t take any formal action against Fitzhume then the only recourse is to tell the truth in my manuscript and see where that leads. Right now, I don’t care if he does decide to take me to court over it; at least the truth will be in the public domain and people will realise what a snake he is.

I know there’s no point continuing the argument with Jack. We have two hours of driving ahead that I don’t want to spend in silence and my thoughts now turn back to the reason for our journey.

‘You said you’ve spoken to Turgood already today?’

Jack sighs, and nods. ‘As soon as the facial recognition software found a positive match to your sister. I wanted to find out what he knew and hopefully be the one to help your private investigation along. To be clear, the software didn’t flag a hundred per cent match. What you need to appreciate is that the footage used to run the check was old and grainy – probably recorded on a handheld camcorder rather than more advanced equipment. The angle of her face in the clips we used wasn’t straight-on either, so it’s only as good as it can be.’

‘Yeah, but you said it was a ninety-two per cent match though, right? That’s as good as a hundred in my book.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s a strong match, which would lead me to conclude it probably is your sister.’

My heart strains at the news. For the last twenty years, I’ve hoped my sister didn’t die the day she stomped away from home in the direction of our grandma’s before vanishing. A part of me – the part I desperately try to silence and ignore – accepted that she could have died, but from what Jack has said, the footage he’s found all but confirms she was alive some four years after she disappeared. That has to give hope that she could still be alive today.

‘What did Turgood say when you spoke to him?’ I ask now, pins and needles prickling at my thighs and forearms.

‘He said he didn’t recognise her name and that he hadn’t watched all of the videos on his hard drive. He claims not to recall the particular video in question, but admits to sharing such videos with others and said that it could have been inadvertently included in his stock. He was being very vague, and without a solicitor present he was cagey.’

I remember the first time I met Turgood and presented him with Freddie’s allegations. He laughed me out of his home, ridiculing the claims as nothing more than spiteful lies. But I’d known he was lying. When I’d first arrived, under the pretence that I was undertaking an investigation into why government cuts were closing valued social care facilities like St Francis, he’d welcomed me with open arms. But the moment I’d mentioned Freddie’s name, the atmosphere turned decidedly cold, as if someone had opened a window. He’d crossed his legs, folded his arms, and avoided answering my questions. His reaction had given me all the confirmation I needed to keep digging. That’s why I need to look into his eyes today and see what happens when I mention my sister. His body language will tell me whether or not he’s lying.

The car grinds to a halt as we join the end of a tailback on the M40. Jack curses quietly as his eyes fall on the long line of brake lights stretching as far as the eye can see.

‘What else did he say?’ I ask.

Jack sighs. ‘He said he wouldn’t be surprised to see the faces of a host of missing children appear in those videos. He said there’s an entire network operating along the south coast. Your sister might be just the tip of an iceberg that stretches back decades.’

I turn so I can study Jack’s face. ‘Did you believe him?’

The grimace confirms that he did, even if he didn’t want to.

He meets my gaze. ‘He didn’t offer any specifics, but my next job will be to request the same facial recognition software is run against any other open missing-children cases to see if further matches can be established.’

I catch sight of the ETA on the sat nav display and my heart sinks. It now says we’re unlikely to arrive before half past four, and if we don’t, my chance to get an answer will certainly end for today.

‘Isn’t there an alternative route we can take?’ I snap.

Jack begins to fiddle with the sat nav. ‘Maybe… Once we get to the next junction, we can try to get off the M40 and find a detour, but we’re on the slip road, so like it or not, we’re trapped on this course for now.’

I sit on my hands as my blood boils with frustration. I don’t tell him, but I sense his words may be more prophetic than he realises.

Chapter Three
Now

HMP Stafford, Staffordshire

We finally make it in through the gates of the prison and into the visitor car park just after four. I’m conscious about how long it may take to get through the sign-in process in the visitors’ centre, so as Jack is applying the handbrake, my hand is already on the door handle.

‘Hold on a sec, will you?’ he cautions, killing the engine. ‘Before you go in there, are you sure you want to?’

I frown at the unnecessary delay. ‘I wouldn’t have come with you if I wasn’t.’

‘I know, I know, but I kind of put you on the spot when I turned up this afternoon. I didn’t give you the opportunity to say no. This will be the first time you’ve seen Turgood since his trial. Are you sure you’re ready? Mentally prepared, I mean.’

My chest tightens as I picture his face in the dock. Even when his whole world was about to come tumbling down, there wasn’t an ounce of remorse in his eyes. I wanted to laugh at him, and tell him how good it felt to see justice finally being delivered for Freddie, Mike and Steve. Yet, when the verdict was delivered, I didn’t feel any pleasure whatsoever. I have no doubt he finally got what he deserved, but at what cost to Freddie and the others? How many other children suffered at the hands of Turgood and his cohorts but didn’t feel brave enough to come forward and have their lives put under the microscope?

I exhale deeply. ‘The video on his hard drive is the biggest breakthrough I’ve had in years. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t see it through.’

Jack nods in reluctant acceptance. ‘Very well. The governor is arranging a private room for you to meet him in and I’ll be there with you, but as a friend rather than in any formal capacity. I’ll hang back so the two of you can speak freely, but I want to warn you to be careful.’

The words catch in my throat. ‘Careful?’

Jack momentarily looks out of his window as if summoning the strength to speak again. ‘It’s going to be weird enough for you coming face to face with him again, but remember it’s his first time seeing you since the trial too. Since he last saw you, he’s been sentenced to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Okay, in a facility specifically used to house sexual offenders, he won’t be subjected to the level of violence and recrimination he might have experienced at another Cat-C facility, but it will still be a sharp change to the lifestyle he was used to.’ He sighs. ‘What I’m trying to say is that he will hold you accountable for this change to his circumstances, and he’s had weeks to think about what he might say to you in the event your paths ever crossed again.’

‘Sticks and stones may break my bones,’ I mutter, prising the door open, until he reaches for my arm.

‘I’m saying, don’t let him get a rise out of you. Right now, you’re in shock with what I’ve told you and you need to keep a clear head in there. Ask him what you want to ask him but don’t take whatever he says to heart.’

I fix him with a firm stare and nod. ‘I’ll be fine. Now, can we get a move on before they say we’re too late?’

Exiting the car, we hurry through the car park and into the visitor centre. Jack explains who we are to the guard at the desk, who then asks us both to provide identification. Once he’s found us on the computer screen, he makes us sign the register and invites us to deposit any personal items in one of the lockers that line the wall at the side of the building. Once they’re satisfied we’re not carrying any weapons or contraband, one of the guards escorts us through the gates, along a narrow windowless corridor, and into the beating heart of the facility.

We arrive at a steel door, reminiscent of a cell door in a police station. Outside the room there is a monitor receiving a signal from a camera within the room. It currently displays a table and three chairs but it doesn’t appear that Turgood has been brought down yet. The prison guard who escorted us advises that he will wait outside the room and will observe us from the monitor, though won’t be able to hear anything said. He tells us he is there for the prisoner’s protection as much as our own.

Unlocking the door, he ushers us inside before closing and locking the door behind us. The room itself is brighter than it appeared on the screen. There are high windows, all barred, which let in a surprising volume of light given how narrow they are. Jack selects one of the chairs and carries it towards the back of the room before sitting.

My breathing is shallow and as I drop onto the remaining chair this side of the table, I feel lightheaded. I’ve been forcing images of Turgood watching Anna out of my mind but now it’s all I can imagine, and I want to be sick. Overhead, a fan whirs somewhere out of sight, pumping artificially cooled air into the room, but it is doing little to quell the heat in my face and neck.

There is a crunch and a grinding noise as the door on the opposite side of the room is unlocked, and when it opens a moment later, another uniformed guard steps through and checks Jack and I are both seated before nodding for Turgood to step forward. The prisoner waits for his cuffs to be removed before sauntering into the room, his eyes practically on stalks as he sees me sitting and waiting like an obedient dog.

He doesn’t utter a word, merely sliding onto the seat across the table from me and crossing one leg over the other. His almost white hair has grown out more since I last saw him and it looks as though he’s made no effort to brush it ahead of this meeting. The pale-blue prison shirt and denim trousers make his face look washed out, and yet he still carries himself with an air of superiority, to the point where it almost feels like he is the one who has come to visit me.

I look to Jack for guidance but see that his head is bent and he is staring at his shoes. Turning back to face Turgood, I’m not sure whether I should speak first or wait for him to engage me. I don’t even know how to start, short of demanding answers about my sister.

He doesn’t speak either, his tongue poking out to wet his lips but then receding. It’s like he’s daring me to crack first and break the awkward silence. Unlike him, I don’t have time to waste.

‘You know why I’m here,’ I croak, before clearing my throat. ‘I want to know what you can tell me about the video discovered on your hard drive.’

He stretches out one of his hands and considers each nail, as if he’s awaiting a manicure, before wetting his lips again and finally meeting my stare. ‘What video would that be then?’

He’s baiting me, waiting to see my reaction when I mention Anna’s name, and I know instantly this is going to be every bit as difficult as Jack has forewarned.

It takes all my strength to summon the words. ‘The video featuring my sister, Anna.’

His lips momentarily curl up slightly before he remembers where he is. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know to what you’re referring. Are you sure it was a video on my hard drive?’

I glance back to Jack but he is lost in his own world.

‘We both know which video I’m referring to,’ I say, biting my tongue.

‘I can’t say I do. Maybe if you could describe it that would—’

‘Cut the crap, Turgood. The only reason I’m here is to appeal to that tiny part of your soul that cannot forgive you for the atrocities you inflicted on others.’

I had hoped it would feel better to blow off steam, but his reaction is one of mirth rather than fear or annoyance.

He leans forwards, crossing one hand over the other, resting them on his pointed knee, as if he’s posing for a photograph. ‘Have you seen the video?’

I hear Jack’s warning echo in my mind: don’t let him get a rise out of you.

‘Where did it come from?’ I ask, ignoring his jibe.

He sits back. ‘Alas, several years ago, my computer became infected with a malicious virus online, and the result was the downloading of a variety of disturbing videos and images that I tried to delete but which were so embedded that I didn’t manage to. That’s why the hard drives were in my loft when the authorities discovered them, you see? I’m no technical expert, but I assumed I’d one day find someone who could remove the virus and recover the original content of the drives, but time slips away so easily. I’d forgotten I still had the drives, to be honest, until they were found during the search of my property.’

He’s lying, I have no doubt. The way he’s framed his posture and the confidence with which he is delivering his lines, there has clearly been some rehearsal involved.

‘I wish there was more I could tell you, Miss Hunter, but I’m afraid I can’t say what I don’t know.’

I’ve never hated the sound of my own name so much as the way he delivers it with such bitter scorn. I need to find a way to get through to him but short of shaking him by the shoulders, I’m at a loss as to how. It feels like the journey here has been a waste of time. I have no doubt that the only reason he agreed to meet with me was to see how desperate I am, and to lord it over me.

I check my watch. ‘Our time is nearly up, so Jack and I had better be going,’ I say, loudly enough for Jack to hear.

I’m about to stand when Turgood utters three words that chill me to the bone.

‘How is Freddie?’

Our eyes meet and it’s all I can do to restrain myself.

‘He always did enjoy being the centre of attention,’ Turgood continues, so casually that my skin crawls. ‘Such a pity he felt the need to concoct such vicious lies about life at the home. Has he ever admitted to you that he once thanked me for looking out for him? Some of the other boys could be quite rough and ready at times but once I took Freddie under my wing, they left him alone. His life at that home would have been far worse had I not looked out for him.’

Bile builds in the back of my throat. Even now, after the truth has come out and he’s been punished for his crimes, he has the nerve to maintain an air of injustice about what has happened.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of my outrage. ‘Freddie is doing really well, as it goes,’ I say proudly. ‘He’s settled and is using his newfound fame to help others. I’ve never seen him looking so well, and now he has a rich life to look forward to while you’re slowly dying in here.’

I turn to leave, but it appears he isn’t done with me yet.

‘Do you really want to know the truth about your sister?’

I freeze, but do not dare look into his eyes.

‘Because if you’re serious about finding out how she ended up on that video, I might be able to tell you something that would help.’

Jack is standing and watching us now and I can see the concern overshadowing his face. I slowly turn back to look at Turgood. He hasn’t shifted his position, but he looks poised to deliver the ace he’s kept up his sleeve this whole time.

‘If you really want to know,’ he torments, ‘then I need to hear you ask for my help.’

I know he’s baiting me again, and that I should just leave the room and never look back, but I can see in his eyes that he has been holding back and I would never forgive myself if I turned away from the search for Anna over something as petty as this.

‘I see the way you look at me,’ Turgood continues, ‘with that look of disdain that all younger people seem to carry these days. You hear Freddie’s version of events and hold me accountable but you have no clue what it was like being responsible for so many broken lives, dealing with violent outbursts and emotional breakdowns. I did what I believed was in the best interests of those thrust into my care, and whether you believe me or not, I took care of Freddie and the others. They’d be dead if it wasn’t for me, so stop hoisting me up as the villain of your piece. There are far worse players out there that you’ve yet to encounter and trust me, by comparison I’m a saint.’

‘I want to know about my sister.’

‘Then ask me.’

I grind my teeth, knowing I will regret sinking to his level, but I don’t see any way around it. ‘Very well. Please help me to understand how my sister ended up on that video.’

His lips curl up fully this time as he claims his simple victory. ‘See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

I can’t bring my eyes to meet Jack’s but I can feel them burning a hole into my face.

Turgood rubs his hands together and savours his moment, committing every second of my submission to memory, to play out over and over when he’s alone.

‘I don’t recall ever meeting your sister,’ he begins like some great orator, ‘but I met many runaways like her – children who couldn’t cope with home, or were escaping some revolting upbringing. Being society’s most vulnerable, they soon fall in with the wrong crowds and in their moments of desperation they’ll take any help offered, even if it comes at a dangerously high cost. At first they’ll be reluctant to do what is asked of them, but when the rewards appear and they realise what little is required to bring that element of security, they soon see that there is no way back. If your sister is in one of the videos your police friend over there referred to, then it’s safe to assume that she was there by choice. If you want my advice, stop looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.’

I can’t contain my rage and I lunge forward, slamming my hands down on the table, growling at the now cowering Turgood. ‘You have no idea who my sister is or how far I’m prepared to go to find her.’

I feel Jack’s hands on my arms within seconds, and he yanks me away from the table as the bolts on both doors are rapidly undone.

‘You’ll rot in hell, you son of a bitch!’ I manage to shout as Jack drags me from the room, my eyes warm with tears.

Chapter Four
Then

Bovington Garrison, Dorset

No, that can’t be the alarm already, thought Natalie, rolling over to hit the snooze button, but grimacing as the agony of the night’s escapades tore up her leg. Although Jane had yanked out the thin branch, Natalie was certain she could feel tiny splinters still firmly embedded beneath her skin, each one waiting to push through into her bloodstream and float around her body for the rest of the day.

‘Time to get up, sleepyhead,’ her mum called through the closed bedroom door, but thankfully she didn’t come in.

Gripping her thigh, Natalie manually lifted and shifted her right leg, holding her breath to fight against the urge to yell out in pain. Her mum would know what to do, how to make it better, but she’d also want to know how Natalie came to have a gaping bloody hole in her calf.

When she’d snuck back in last night, it had taken all her willpower not to knock on her parents’ door and tell them exactly what had happened: the woods, the game, Sally… everything. But as she’d hovered by the door, willing her hand to reach up for the handle, she’d remembered the sting of Louise’s slap and the warning that they weren’t to tell anyone. They’d made a pact, and breaking a pact was a dangerous thing, Natalie knew.

Hitting the snooze button, Natalie propped herself up on her pillows. She leaned back into them and wiped the thin sheen that had pooled on her forehead. The room wasn’t overly warm but the effort of moving her leg had taken a lot out of her. Louise had said she was being a wet blouse worrying about the leg, and as an older girl she was surely more knowledgeable about such matters, right? If she said the leg wouldn’t get infected, then there really wasn’t anything Natalie should be worried about.

Taking a deep breath to settle the bubble of anxiety building in the pit of her stomach, she whipped back the duvet and stared down at the strapping she’d managed to pinch from the bathroom cabinet and wrap around her leg in the pitch black. It was a bulbous and bloody mess, but at least the staining hadn’t spread to her bed covers; thank heaven for small mercies. She’d have to dispose of the strapping on the way to school. There was no way it could be reused, and she doubted her mum would be able to get it clean. If anyone asked what had happened to the roll of bandage, she’d just have to plead ignorance.

‘I’m going downstairs now,’ her mum called through the door again, this time adding a knock to ensure that her daughter was awake. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

The last thing Natalie needed was for her mum to barge in right now and see the state of her leg. ‘Yes, please. I’m going to shower and then I’ll be down.’

There was no response but the tell-tale sound of footfalls on the stairs confirmed her mum was on her way to the kitchen. That just left her dad to sneak past. His routine was like clockwork and, all things being equal, he’d now be sitting in the small toilet reading one of his angling magazines. But he wouldn’t remain in there for ever, which only offered Natalie a finite amount of time to get out of bed and into the bathroom without anyone catching her. The trouble was, she didn’t think her injured limb would be up to bearing her weight this morning.

What was the alternative?

Delicately swinging her left leg over the edge of the mattress, she lifted and shifted her right leg with her hands again, wincing as the bandage brushed against the bed frame. Then, with another deep breath, she pushed herself off the mattress and planted both feet on the thick pile rug where her slippers, trainers, and pile of school uniform sat. She couldn’t help the gasp escaping her mouth, but with her door shut and her parents otherwise engaged, she could only hope neither had heard.

Her grandmother used to say that pain in an injury was the body’s way of saying it was healing; Natalie was certain that was a crock, but if there was some truth in the old lady’s words, then her body had to be working overtime to heal. Bearing most of her weight on her left leg, Natalie reached out for her chair and rested her right hand on its back, pushing it along as a makeshift Zimmer frame as she made it towards her bedroom door; she wouldn’t be able to use it beyond her bedroom without drawing unnecessary attention, but it would do the job for now. Finally, making it to the door, she slowly lowered the handle and peered out, her eyes searching for the figure of her father whilst her ears strained for any hint of where he might be.

Neither sense alerted her to his presence and, venturing forward, she used the wallpapered wall to support her journey forward, only pausing momentarily when the sound of pages being turned confirmed her dad’s presence in the toilet. Continuing to the bathroom, she closed and locked the door. relief sweeping through her. Perching on the edge of the bathtub, she raised her nightdress and began very slowly and delicately to unwind the strapping. The bandage crackled and pulled as the congealed bloodstains cracked and tore until she was down to the final wraparound, but she had to stop as the tugging brought tears to her eyes.

The healing process had resulted in the clot binding with the bandage and there was no way to remove it without restarting the bleeding, but Natalie didn’t think she had the strength to complete the deed without screaming and wailing.

Her grandmother would have told her just to yank it off like any other Band-Aid, but even the gentlest of pulls was too much to bear. And then she remembered another trick the old lady had taught her when she was younger: it was far easier to remove plasters when they were covered by water, on account of the glue becoming less adhesive. There was no guarantee the same logic applied to a bloodied bandage, but what did she have to lose?

Manoeuvring her injured leg over the side of the bath, she used the large handle her dad had installed for Grandma to pull herself into a standing position, and brought her left leg in to join her right. Then, switching on the shower, she shrieked as a hard spray of cold water hit her upper body like winter’s rain. It soon warmed up and, lifting down the shower hose, she targeted the spray onto the stubborn strapping, giving it another gentle tug every few seconds, until the whole thing dropped into the tub with a splosh. The sight of the bloodied hole was still a shock, but as the shower spray continued to work its miraculous magic, the wound began to look less threatening. Her calf muscle was definitely swollen to almost twice the size of its rival but she’d managed to avoid fresh bleeding, and as she switched off the shower and climbed back out of the tub, she would have argued that the leg was slightly less painful than when she’d woken too.

Raiding the medicine cabinet, she located the box of plasters and, selecting the largest square one, she pressed it firmly over the wound and limped back to her bedroom, just as the sound of a flushing toilet signalled her dad’s imminent exit.

He didn’t speak as he emerged, just closed the door behind him, folding and tucking the magazine beneath his arm and waddling slightly as he returned to his own room, oblivious of the towel-wrapped and dripping girl edging slowly across the landing. Her mum always said he couldn’t be relied on for anything until he’d had his first coffee of the day.

Back in her room, Natalie dressed, opting for a thick pair of black tights to cover evidence of the plaster, and, having wrung out the bandage in the bathroom basin, she stuffed it into her school bag, before zipping it up, and hoping that a) her mum wouldn’t look inside the bag, and b) the moist bandage wouldn’t dampen her books too much.

Arriving in the kitchen, Natalie could hear her mum talking on the phone in the other room, but her dad was already at the breakfast table munching burnt toast with a snarl across his lips. Just a typical breakfast in the Sullivan household. The radio in the background was playing some hit from the 80s – a decade of music Natalie didn’t personally care for but which her mum adored. Natalie couldn’t understand how grown-ups couldn’t appreciate modern music; even the older songs both her parents frequently crooned along to must have been new at one point in time, so they couldn’t always have been so stuck in the past. Why couldn’t they listen to normal music?

Reaching for the Shreddies, Natalie filled her bowl, before asking her dad to pass the milk. He sighed as he did, as if her request was the most challenging task in the world. He’d obviously got up on the wrong side of bed again this morning, but it seemed like he didn’t know any other way these days. She knew it was safer just to keep her head down and avoid drawing his attention.

Her mum’s voice in the other room grew louder, but Natalie couldn’t work out what she was saying, or to whom. Either way, it didn’t sound like it was good news she was receiving. A moment later, her mum came into the kitchen, clutching the phone in her hand but pointing it at Natalie.

‘I’ve just got off the phone with Diane Curtis, Sally’s mum,’ she said, her tone somewhere between anger and concern. ‘Seems Sally wasn’t in her bed this morning when Diane went to wake her. She’s phoning around everyone to see if anyone knows where Sally might be.’

There wasn’t an obvious question, but Natalie knew to infer that an answer was expected. Slowly swallowing her mouthful of cereal to buy some time, Natalie opted for ignorance. ‘I don’t know where Sally is.’

She hated lying to her parents, particularly her mum, but it wasn’t exactly a lie; she genuinely didn’t know where Sally was. Not now.

Here mum’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know she’s your friend, and the last thing you’d want to do is get your friend into trouble, but her mum is going spare with worry. If you have any idea where she might be, or what might have happened, you need to tell me, Natalie.’

‘I told you I don’t know, Mum.’ The lie felt like a mound of earth she’d just brought up and out of her throat.

‘Well, Diane said Sally was tucked up in bed when she checked on her at eleven, and then again at five this morning, but now she’s gone.’

Natalie couldn’t keep the confused frown from developing, but tried not to give anything away. If her mum had seen her in bed at five this morning, did that mean…?

‘What?’ her mum asked. ‘Do you know where she is? Or where she was planning to go?’

‘No, Mum.’

‘Swear to me.’

This was the last thing Natalie wanted to do. It would be so much easier just to admit the truth: they’d snuck out, left the safe confines of the garrison, and headed into the woods. She could tell her mum how it had all been Sally’s idea, and that Louise and Jane had pressured her into joining them; she could tell her mum how she’d fallen and hurt her leg and then her mum would make everything better. But then Natalie remembered Louise’s slap and pact warning, and instead shovelled another mouthful of cereal into her mouth.

‘I swear I don’t know where Sally Curtis is.’

Chapter Five
Now

Blackfriars, London

Sitting in the padded chair across the desk from Maddie’s latest stack of manuscripts, I can’t help but notice the subtle changes she’s introduced since my first book, Monsters Under the Bed, flew off the shelves. Back when we first met in this very room, the picture reproductions on the walls weren’t framed, there was no television or mini-fridge in the corner of the room, and the only luxurious chair was Maddie’s own well-worn bright-red faux-leather recliner. I remember her commenting that she preferred to read manuscripts at a forty-five degree angle – caught halfway between rest and the real world. Each to their own, I figured back then.

Choosing the right literary agent is a challenge for all new authors; if you’ve ever written and tried to publish a book, you’ll understand why I say this. I mean, writing a book is a marathon of a challenge, just in terms of putting the words down on paper, but to then give each sentence and paragraph the tender, loving attention they need until what you’ve produced resembles something nearing literature is far from easy. And then at that point, when you think your part is complete – you’ve actually written a book for goodness’ sake! – that’s when the real work begins, because although you believe passionately in the piece of writing you’ve poured your heart and soul into, convincing a very busy literary agent that it’s worth their time to read it is another matter.

I was lucky in that I was introduced to Maddie at a book launch of a friend of a friend. As soon as I explained that I was looking into historical abuse at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, with detailed witness accounts from three victims, she was salivating at the prospect. I should explain that Monsters is not a work of fiction, and whilst I am proud of the outcome it brought about for the victims – particularly Freddie – it was probably one of the most challenging projects I’ve taken on.

As an investigative journalist, you’re warned that fate can take you down some dark alleys in the search for the truth, but my interviews with Freddie, Mike and Steve were unrelenting; we got through more than one box of tissues along the way. But earlier this year, it all seemed worth it when the men responsible for the vicious abuse were tried and convicted at The Old Bailey. And in the next six months, the documentary about that hellhole will be available for all to stream (keep your own box of tissues to hand).

I can’t forget the sneer on Arthur Turgood’s face the moment Jack and I went to visit him in his cage three months ago. The gall of the man to see how desperately I needed answers, only to leave me in limbo.

My chest heaves; I’m not going to allow him to spoil my day again.

Maddie’s office now bears the tell-tall signs of Christmas approaching. In her defence, Maddie hasn’t gone over the top. The tree atop the mini-fridge is barely a metre high and is sparsely decorated with lights and baubles, and there are barely half a dozen festive cards standing on the locked cabinet against the far wall. Maddie once told me she doesn’t go into Christmas as much as when she was younger, but I’m the opposite; you can barely move for tinsel, garlands and twinkling lights in my one-bedroom studio flat in Weymouth.

Christmas when I was growing up was always a big occasion; or at least it was until… My chest tightens at the thought of the space on the mantelpiece where two advent calendars had once hung. After Anna’s disappearance, it had never felt right to make a big fuss at Christmas. And for a time after I left home, I maintained that status quo of barely even decorating a tree, but that all changed when I met Rachel at university. A city girl through and through, Rachel reminded me of how joyous December can be with a few decorations and festive songs. She also reminded me that Anna might return one day, and would hate to think that her disappearance had robbed us of our Christmas spirit.

The door behind me bursts open and Maddie comes jogging in, panting and flustered, her usual pristine and carefully made-up face red and blotchy, and her mop of chestnut curls sweat-streaked and clinging to her glistening forehead. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but professional business attire either, and this purple and silver tracksuit is reminiscent of the sort of thing that made shell suits so popular when I was a teenager.

‘You’re early,’ she puffs at me, surprised to find me in her small office with a takeaway cup of tea.

‘We said nine,’ I say, frowning, as I suddenly question whether I am the one in the wrong.

Maddie drops into her new black leather recliner, reaching down to the mini-fridge and withdrawing a chilled bottle of mineral water and drinking half the contents, before looking back to me. ‘Are you sure I said nine? I was certain we weren’t meeting until ten.’

I’m racking my memory now, certain the invitation in my online calendar said to meet at nine. ‘No, I think we were originally going to meet at ten, but then your assistant messaged me and said you had to move it earlier as you have another meeting at ten?’

Maddie snaps her fingers together and screws the lid back onto the bottle. ‘That’s right, that’s right, of course it is. Oh, I’m so sorry, Emma. Yes, now that you’ve said that it’s all coming flooding back. What am I like?’

Maddie is twenty years older than me, but I’ve never seen her in as big a flap as she is now; usually our roles are reversed with me becoming anxious and stressed about every possible scenario, while she is coolness personified. I don’t like being the collected one in this relationship and I’m grateful when she logs in to her laptop and refers back to the agenda for today’s meeting.

‘I have good news, and not such good news,’ she declares, locating a towel from a gym bag squashed down behind her desk and wiping her forehead clean.

Maddie has always been good at managing my expectations and she doesn’t hide the truth from me, but she also has a tendency to try and sugar-coat anything that might otherwise feel like a negative. I don’t think she does this just for me, but it comes as part and parcel of her role as literary agent and maternal figure to all of her clients. We writers really do have low opinions of ourselves, and it is easy for the tiniest molehill to be blown out of all proportion and enlarged into a menacing ash cloud.

I take a deep breath, determined not to overthink whatever bombshell she’s about to drop. ‘Okay,’ I say, unable to keep the caution from my voice. ‘What’s the good news?’

‘The publisher loves Ransomed! They actually think the way it’s been written is even better than Monsters Under the Bed. They love the dual timeline approach where we learn what was really happening with little Cassie Hilliard’s abduction, while in the later timeline we get to follow your investigation. Your editor Becky says it reads almost like a piece of gripping fiction, and is even more compelling because it’s based on a true story.’

‘It is a true story,’ I counter. ‘I didn’t make up what happened to Cassie Hilliard. It’s factual.’

Maddie is pulling a face, her nose wrinkling as she prepares to deliver the not-so-good news. ‘Yes, it is factual, but… their legal department is challenging some of the conclusions you’ve drawn at the end of the book. I know we discussed the ending before you wrote it, and I was the one who encouraged you to tell it as you saw it, but the lawyers aren’t so sure such conclusions can be drawn without evidence.’

‘He as much as admitted to me what he’d done,’ I respond, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. ‘He was the one behind it all, and if the lawyers want to see my written notes of that conversation, I’m happy to supply them. They’re date- and time-stamped. I jotted them down as soon as we’d finished speaking.’

Her nose wrinkles even more. ‘But they say it’s still your word against his. He denies any such conversation occurred and that you’re just trying to sensationalise your account of Cassie’s abduction to sell more books.’

I scoff at the affront. ‘Well, of course he’s going to say that; he doesn’t want the world to know what he did!’

Maddie raises her flat palms in a calming gesture. ‘I know he’s as guilty as you say, and that you would never dare lie for dramatic effect, but your notes of the conversation are not conclusive proof. I read the first and second drafts of the book, and anyone with half a brain who reads what you’ve written won’t be able to draw any alternative conclusion to the one you’ve presented. But…’

She leaves the ‘but’ hanging in the air and I can’t say I’m surprised that the publishers are getting nervous. Cassie Hilliard’s family have enough money to put the publishers out of business – or at the very least have them tearing through bureaucratic red tape for the next ten years.

‘So where does that leave us?’ I ask when I’ve composed myself and remembered that Maddie is merely the messenger.

‘They are continuing with the copyedit and you’ll have the proposed changes over to you sometime in late January and in the meantime, their legal department will continue to scrutinise the backstory and potential libel implications. The family haven’t brought any kind of civil action against them or you yet and they just want to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘Worst-case scenario?’

Maddie lets out a long and fatigued sigh. ‘Worst-case scenario, they ask you to reword the final chapter and leave it to the reader to determine guilt. It’s not the end of the world to leave the ending open, if you ask me. It will certainly leave your readers with questions, and that in itself will only generate further discussion.’

I’m not convinced, and hate the thought of leaving my readers without the whole picture. ‘And best-case scenario?’

‘They leave everything as it is and the world gets to see the truth about what really happened. Either way, you look set to have a second bestseller under your belt. Twitter is already hanging on every rumour about the book and its possible publication date. As soon as this wrangle is finished with the lawyers, they’ve promised to officially reveal the cover and put it up on pre-order.’ Maddie pauses and takes another slug from her bottle of mineral water. ‘The publishers have talked about an official launch party for the announcement. Now, I know you’re not keen on big public displays, but they really think it will help announce the book if you’re there to pose for pictures. As much as you hate the term celebrity, Monsters put you on the map, and now everyone is desperate to know what’s coming next.’

I cringe at the mention of a launch party where I’ll be the centre of attention. When did it become necessary for authors to have faces? I’d much prefer to just write and allow all the marketing and publicity to be handled by the experts.

‘You’re chewing the sleeve of your cardigan again,’ Maddie warns.

I yank my arm down, frustrated that I still have that nervous habit. ‘They’re not expecting me to speak at this event, are they?’

Maddie doesn’t have the chance to answer as the phone on the corner of her desk bursts into life. She grabs it on the second ring and adopts her regular telephone voice, but whatever she’s being told is clearly not good news as the blood drains instantly from her face. Do I assume this is news from the publisher’s legal team?

Maddie hangs up without saying another word, pushes back her chair and charges towards the closed door.

‘Maddie, what is it?’ I call after her. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s a woman on the roof,’ she replies absently, ‘and she’s threatening to jump.’

Chapter Six
Now

Blackfriars, London

The lift takes for ever to arrive and by the time it does, Maddie is white as a sheet. I really don’t think it’s a good idea for either of us to be going anywhere near the roof, but given Maddie’s history, I know there is no way I will be able to talk her out of forcibly getting herself involved. Maddie’s father died by suicide when she was at university and she’s always blamed herself for not seeing the signs. We’ve only ever had one conversation about it because she prefers to keep her personal life guarded, but I know she was the last person her dad phoned before he swallowed a handful of painkillers. She told me that, in hindsight, she’d known something was off by the way he ended the call, but she ignored that instinct and has regretted it every day since.

My father didn’t reach out to me before he was found hanging by the neck in HMP Portland. I try to think that’s because he didn’t want to inflict further pain on me, but I wish he had. I wish I could have told him that life without him in it will never be as bright.

I’ll be no use in this kind of high-intensity, stressful situation, but Maddie needs a friend more than ever and there’s nobody else I can call. How many times has she been there for me when my investigation into Anna’s disappearance has stalled, or when my impostor syndrome rears its ugly head and tells me I have no idea how to plot and structure a book? Despite my personal reservations, I will stick to Maddie like glue.

It’s a relief when the lift finally arrives on the tenth floor. One of the security guards from reception is standing guard at the door to the roof-access staircase, and he’s already told another pair that the scene is out of bounds. What is it with people wanting to gawp at a person threatening to throw themselves from a building? You see it in the movies when someone is teetering on the edge of a rooftop and the crowds gather beneath; if it were me, I’d turn and run. At best, an observer will see the person stand there for a time, until they’re talked out of the act; at worst, you’d have to watch as they plummet to the ground and then hear the sickening crunch of bone compacting with concrete before seeing the red puddle spread out from the point of impact.

No, thank you; not an image I want to witness. There’s enough evil in this world.

‘Roof’s out of bounds,’ the security guard says to us dismissively.

‘You don’t understand,’ Maddie counters. ‘I’m professionally trained for these situations; I’ve completed the ASIST training.’

He stares at her blankly.

‘It stands for Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training. And I help out on The Samaritans helpline so unless your colleague up there has dealt with a similar situation before, he’s going to need my help.’

It’s only now that I notice how ill the security guard looks. His name badge identifies him as Clyde, though I don’t recognise him, despite my umpteen visits to Maddie’s building. Her literary agency takes up a third of the sixth floor – with its view of The Shard – but the remainder of the building is taken up by a wide variety of other businesses. There are also metal detectors and luggage X-ray machines at the entrance so security is pretty high; if this woman has managed to get through all that and up to the roof, she must either work here or have been visiting someone who does.

Clyde now looks at me for some kind of corroboration. I have no idea whether what Maddie has just told him is true or not, though it isn’t in her nature to lie about something so serious, particularly when a woman’s life is at stake. I choose to nod and back my friend and mentor.

Clyde takes a further second to consider his options, before stepping aside and scanning his security pass at the panel, and opening the door for us. ‘Tell my colleague what you told me about The Samaritans stuff, yeah?’

Maddie is straight through the door without another word and whilst I admire her single-handed determination, I do wish we’d stayed put in her office below and waited for news. The stairs up to the next door are large and steep, and lead to a ladder which completes the final part of the journey. The hatch we then have to squeeze through isn’t exactly practical, but once on the other side we are immediately on the roof. The wind up here is both gusty and bitter. I close the hatch behind me and take in the immediate surroundings. The roof is largely flat with a number of vent openings, which must feed into the air-conditioning system that pumps through the building all year. It isn’t immediately apparent where the woman is – for the briefest moment I can’t help thinking we are too late – but then I catch the sound of voices carrying on the wind to our left. Maddie must hear it too as she turns and moves off in that direction without a second’s thought.

I hurry after the blur of purple and silver as her tracksuit top flaps in the wind. If I’d have thought about it, I would have suggested we both put on warm coats before making our way up here, but in our blind panic it never even crossed my mind.

Clyde’s colleague, who is also dressed in a black polo shirt and trousers, is a couple of metres ahead of us, stooping, arms outstretched in the direction of the woman dressed in brilliant white robes who is standing just short of the edge of the roof. She looks almost angelic.

‘Who are they?’ she calls out, pointing at us as we approach the security guard. ‘I said nobody else was to come up here.’

Keeping his eyes on the woman, the guard turns his head to address us from the side of his mouth. ‘This is no place for you. Go back downstairs.’

Maddie ignores the command and stands directly beside him, zipping up her tracksuit top as it continues to flap and float on the wind. ‘My name is Maddie Travers,’ she calls out to the woman, ‘and I work in this building on the sixth floor. What’s your name?’

‘She doesn’t want to give her name,’ the guard replies quietly, still talking through the side of his mouth.

‘That’s okay. You don’t need to tell me your name,’ Maddie calls out again. ‘I’m just here to listen to you.’

‘Leave me alone!’ the woman fires back.

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sweetheart,’ Maddie says, surprisingly calm given the pressure of the situation which I can only watch unfold.

It feels as though I’m not even here, as if I’m sitting alone somewhere watching it play out on a screen, knowing there is nothing I can do to influence proceedings. Maddie, on the other hand, seems intent on taking the bull by the horns.

‘Can you tell me what’s brought you up to this roof today?’

The woman glances back over her shoulder, her body trembling as she does, though it isn’t clear if it’s nerves or the chill in the air.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ Maddie calls, ‘you don’t have to answer my questions. Really, I just want to understand what could have happened to make you think that this is the only way out.’

She turns back to look at Maddie again and I suddenly realise both Maddie and the guard have moved half a step closer to the woman. ‘You wouldn’t understand!’

‘I think you’d be surprised,’ Maddie challenges. ‘My father felt the same way once – that everything was so bleak that there was nowhere else for him to go. But do you know what? He found a way out.’

It feels like we’ve reached a stalemate. If Maddie and the guard charged at the woman now, there’s no way they’d get to her before she had the chance to hurl herself backwards over the ledge, and yet I can’t say for certain that she definitely wants to jump. Having never been faced with a situation like this before, I can’t tell whether this is a serious attempt or just a cry for help. Regardless, I’m not sure Maddie is the right person to be trying to talk her down. They have trained professionals for this kind of thing in the police force, who must be on their way by now.

The woman is watching Maddie carefully, but then her gaze falls on me and she stares so intently that I desperately want to look away. It takes all my willpower to hold her gaze.

‘There’s no way out for me,’ she shouts, still staring at me. ‘I’m cursed.’

‘Tell me about that,’ Maddie encourages.

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me. I’m a well-educated woman with a vivid imagination. I think you’d be surprised at how much I can understand.’

The woman glances back over her shoulder again as the sound of approaching sirens fills the air. Oh my God, I think she may actually jump right now. She is so close that a trip or slip would send her headfirst over the ledge.

Relief floods my body as she turns back to face us again.

‘You’re not up here by choice, are you?’ Maddie tries again. ‘Who put this curse on you?’

The woman’s eyes are shining in the early morning sunlight. ‘We brought it on ourselves. We made a pact not to tell anyone what we did.’

‘Was that you and a particular person? A husband? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?’

The woman promptly sits down, her bottom on the ledge; it’s impossible to know whether this is a step forwards or backwards. Has she sat to engage, or so it’s easier to throw herself back?

‘A best friend?’ Maddie guesses next. ‘What did you and this person make a pact about? I’m assuming it’s something you consider bad if you’re not prepared to tell me?’

‘I can’t tell you because then you’ll be cursed too.’

‘Okay, okay, sweetheart, if you really don’t want to tell me, then that’s okay, but I won’t be able to help if I don’t know what help you need. Does your friend know how you feel?’

‘They don’t care. Nobody does.’

‘I care, sweetheart. Even though we’ve just met, I promise I care about what happens to you. And so does my friend Emma here.’

My eyes widen at the mention of my name. Why drag me into it?

‘Emma cares about people who think they’ve reached the end of the road. She has a special gift for helping them.’

A noise behind us has me turning to look, and now I see a woman clad in black emerge from the hatch. There is a badge and warrant card hanging from a chain around her neck. The trained negotiator. Thank God.

‘No more people,’ the terrified woman calls out, standing up again and pressing her ankles against the ledge.

The police negotiator’s hair is silver in colour despite the youthful appearance of her features; I can only assume doing this kind of work, and the stress-level involved, has an aging effect on those who undertake it.

‘Natalie, my name is Inspector Marcziesk. I know why you’re up here and I’ve been sent to help you. Is this about Sally? Sally Curtis?’

That name rings a bell but I can’t place why it sounds so familiar.

The woman – Natalie, by all accounts – steps back and up onto the ledge. I can’t watch and yet cannot take my eyes from her. One sudden gust of wind and she’ll be over.

‘Steady there, Natalie,’ the inspector cautions. ‘Nobody wants to see things end this way. I’m here to listen to anything you want to say. Please don’t do something you’ll regret.’

Natalie doesn’t respond, merely looking from the inspector to me. She’s burning a hole into my subconscious again.

‘Think about your mum and dad,’ the inspector tries once more. ‘Think about Louise and Jane. What would they think if they could see you up here now?’

‘You’re Emma Hunter, aren’t you?’ Natalie calls out. ‘I recognise you from the television. Can you help me?’

I don’t know what to say, or how best to answer – not that I have much choice as the words can’t get past the lump in my throat.

‘You need to find her,’ Natalie continues. ‘Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.’

Before any of us can react, Natalie closes her eyes and falls back off the roof.

Chapter Seven
Then

Bovington Garrison, Dorset

Natalie had waited for her mum to depart – off to have her hair cut and blow-dried – before venturing from the house, her limp far more pronounced than she would have cared for. Her dad hadn’t stuck around after breakfast, and even when her mum was asking questions about Sally, it was as if he was in a world of his own, kissing them both on the head before hurrying away, citing some exercise he had to prepare for. It was the life they lived: army business before all else. Not that Natalie minded living in the confines of the base; there was something reassuring about having a large fence around them.

She winced as she stepped over the threshold and onto the narrow path outside the house. So far the plaster was keeping the blood at bay, but she couldn’t be certain it would remain that way for the rest of the day. She’d wanted to bring a spare in her bag in case it started to leak, but there hadn’t been any large ones left in the box. No need for anyone to see how much discomfort it was causing her. Later tonight, when she was undertaking homework in her room, she would leave the plaster off and allow air to get to the wound. She felt confident that once it scabbed over, walking would be less painful.

Waiting for her mum to leave the house meant she wouldn’t be able to catch the early bus now, but if she could get to the bus stop just after it had left, she’d be first in the queue for the second bus; she definitely didn’t think she’d be able to cope with walking the whole way to school. Not today.

Jane emerged from her house, further up the road, but if she’d spotted Natalie then she didn’t stop to wave, jumping into the front of her mum’s car before they disappeared from sight. It was unusual for Jane to be getting a lift into school, and Natalie was a little put out that they hadn’t offered to give her a lift too. It had to be that Jane simply hadn’t spotted her, and that Jane’s mum had taken pity on her daughter having to carry her violin to school.

That had to be it.

It couldn’t be anything else.

Natalie kept her eyes low as the Curtis house came in to view, terrified that Sally’s mum Diane might spot her and ask the same painful questions Natalie’s mum had asked. Natalie was used to keeping the truth from her own mother, but didn’t feel confident she’d survive an interrogation from Diane.

When she dared to glance over at the property, it looked surprisingly quiet. She’d half expected to find some kind of search party on the garden waiting to scour the area, but there wasn’t even a car on the driveway.

Did that mean…?

Could Sally have returned?

She was tempted to cross the road and knock on the door to find out, but the prospect that her hope was misplaced was enough to keep her moving forwards, albeit slowly because of the sharp pain in her leg.

Nearing the security hut from where she would exit out to the bus stop, she gasped when she spotted her dad there amongst a small troop of five other men, receiving orders from Lieutenant-Colonel Havvard, the head of base security. Creeping slowly forward, keeping her head bent, Natalie strained to hear what was being said, but the wind was too strong, and the lieutenant-colonel had his back to her. She caught her dad looking over and made to wave but he didn’t return the gesture, his eyes turning back on Havvard once more.

The briefing ended just as Natalie reached the security barrier and she waited in line with two boys in the same year group as the guard at the barrier signed them off the base. The troop disbanded, jogging back towards the residences. Her dad remained behind, walking over to Natalie and taking her out of the line.

‘What’s going on, Dad?’ she asked. ‘Is Sally back?’

He shook his head solemnly and stooped so his face was at eye level. ‘No, and her parents are really worried. Do you know where she’s hiding?’

Natalie’s cheeks burned. ‘No. I told Mum, I have no idea where she is.’

He seemed to accept her response but remained bent over. ‘Okay, but do you think one of your other friends might know where she is? Diane and Owen said she was in bed when they locked up last night but wasn’t there this morning. Did she mention that she was planning to run away?’

Natalie gulped. ‘No, I swear.’

‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Listen, do you think you could do me a favour today? Keep your ears open at school, especially with your other friends. If any of them mentions Sally, or they seem to know more than they’re letting on, will you tell me? It’s very serious and we want to make sure she’s back safe and sound. Will you do that for me?’

Natalie forced herself to nod, inwardly cringing for not coming clean to him now.

‘That’s my good girl. You’d better hurry along now or you’ll be late for school.’

He straightened and she moved back to the line at the security barrier, which was now longer.

‘Well?’ she overheard Lieutenant-Colonel Havvard say.

‘No, she doesn’t know where Sally is,’ Natalie’s father replied quietly.

‘And you believe her?’

‘Of course I do! She wouldn’t lie to me.’

‘Well, someone knows where she is and we’re not going to stop until she’s found. Is that clear?’

Her dad grunted. ‘The last thing we need is another Denmark debacle.’

‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ Havvard growled under his breath.

Natalie looked over her shoulder and saw her dad now squirming beneath Havvard’s glare.

‘Nothing. Forget I said anything. I’d better join the others.’

With that, he saluted and marched back in the direction of the residences.

Chapter Eight
Now

Blackfriars, London

I don’t think I will ever forget that blood-curdling scream for as long as I live.

Even now, an hour later and seated in the warmth and comfort of Maddie’s office, I can hear it every time my eyes close: a death’s cry as that desperate woman realised that everything she knew of life was about to disappear in the blink of an eye.

Neither Maddie nor I have spoken a word since we were ushered back down here and told to wait for a police officer to come and take our witness statements. I’m about to finish my second cup of hot, sweet tea, feeling no calmer than the moment it occurred. It didn’t feel real – like the craziness of a dream that you don’t want to quite believe despite what your subconscious is forcing you to accept as reality. One minute she was there, and the next just… thin air.

Inspector Marcziesk and the security guard had rushed to the edge, as if they’d somehow be able to reverse time and bring her back up, but her blood was apparently already spreading out across the pavement when they looked over. Maddie and I had remained where we were, neither of us willing or able to see what had become of the woman we’d known for less than five minutes. If the scream will haunt me for ever, I dread to think what impact the image of her prone body would have had on the rest of my life.

Watching someone die certainly puts life into perspective; I can’t even begin to imagine what must have driven Natalie to plunge ten storeys to the ground, knowing death was the only inevitability. There could be any number of reasons, and she offered little by explanation. I had thought that once the police negotiator arrived the situation would have ended with a positive conclusion – naïve maybe, on my part. Looking around Maddie’s office – the stack of unread manuscripts; shelves strewn with her clients’ published works; a paltry sum of festive decorations – all of it feels so unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Death can come for any of us just as quickly, and for most we won’t even be a footnote in history.

We both start at a knock at Maddie’s door. Turning to see who has caused the intrusion, I see a pair of grey eyes, a close-cropped greying beard and a dark uniform. The man removes his hat as he enters, closing the door behind him without a word.

‘I’m Sergeant Daggard. Jim. You two are’ – he pauses, pushes a pair of half-rimmed spectacles onto his nose and reads from his notebook – ‘Emma Hunter and Maddie Travers?’

I nod, standing and offering my hand. ‘I’m Emma and this is my agent, Maddie.’

The colour has yet to return to Maddie’s cheeks and I’ve never seen her looking as old as she does right now. Usually, with her makeup applied and her outfit carefully selected, you’d never know there was a twenty-year age gap between us. Right now she looks almost as aged and withering as my own mother.

‘I understand the two of you were up on the roof when…’– he takes a moment to choose his words carefully – ‘when the incident occurred.’

‘That’s right,’ I confirm. ‘Have you come to take our witness statements?’

He offers an empathetic smile. ‘That’s correct, Miss Hunter, but before I do, how are you both coping? It’s vital that we capture an accurate account of what you saw, but it’s also important that you both take whatever time and counselling you need to come to terms with what happened. There is a telephone number for confidential counselling that I’ll pass to you as soon as we’re done, but in the meantime, are you both up to telling me what you saw? If it’s easier, I’m happy for you to stay together while I ask you questions.’

There is something about Sergeant Daggard that I instantly warm to. He has one of those voices you hear on late-night radio: relaxed, sincere and capable of putting you instantly at ease. It can’t be easy to remain so calm and compassionate in such a situation, and yet there is no trace of impatience or frustration in either his manner or his behaviour. He’s placed his hat on the stack of manuscripts and because there isn’t a vacant chair, he’s instead taken up a position resting on the edge of the filing cabinet.

‘I have a detailed statement from Inspector Marcziesk, who informed me that the two of you, and one’ – another pause to consult his notebook – ‘Sydney Bartholomew were already on the roof when she arrived. Is that correct?’

I wait a moment to see if Maddie wants to engage with him, but she’s now rested her head in her hands and is avoiding eye contact with both of us. Knowing Maddie, she’s already started the mental inquest into whether she could have handled anything differently. There really was nothing more she could have done though. In fact, thinking back to what I saw, prior to the inspector’s arrival, Natalie sitting down on the ledge felt like progress was being made.

‘That’s right. I mean, if Sydney is the name of the guard,’ I answer for the two of us.

‘Can I ask what you were both doing on the roof?’

‘We wanted to help. Maddie received a call telling her that someone was threatening to jump, and as a trained suicide prevention counsellor, she wanted—’

‘A what, sorry?’ Daggard interrupted with an apologetic wince.

‘Maddie’s had training to help talk to people who are contemplating suicide, as part of her work with The Samaritans,’ I reply. At least that’s what I think she said to Clyde the security guard to convince him to let us up. Oh God, what if that was just bull on Maddie’s part? I didn’t question it at the time, but is that why she’s so quiet now? Surely not.

‘Is that right, Miss Travers?’

Maddie doesn’t look up, nor respond.

‘Miss Travers?’

‘Maddie!’ I say louder, to snap her out of the trance. ‘Sergeant Daggard asked you a question.’

Maddie looks up at both of us; her eyes are red and puffy, and shining with the light from overhead. I reach into my satchel, remove a packet of tissues I always keep in there and pass her one.

‘It’s all right,’ Daggard says to her calmly. ‘I’ll continue talking with Miss Hunter, and then speak to you afterwards.’ He looks back to me. ‘You were saying, Miss Hunter…?’

‘Um, yeah,’ I begin, trying to straighten the memories in my head. ‘We climbed up onto the roof and saw the security guard there, maybe five or so metres from the woman, who was standing close to the ledge.’

‘Were the two of them in discussion?’

‘I–I–I don’t really remember… She pointed at Maddie and me, and wanted to know who we were, so Maddie explained.’

‘How did the woman – Natalie – how did she seem to you? Was she upset? Angry? Worried?’

‘Anxious, I’d say, but yes, there was definitely fear there too. She seemed troubled.’

‘And how did she react once you’d identified yourselves?’

I think about the penetrating stare she held on me for what felt like an age, but probably wasn’t more than a few seconds. ‘Maddie was the one talking to her; I was just observing the scene unfolding. I’m sorry, I really don’t remember. I never expected her to actually go through with it.’

‘I understand from Inspector Marcziesk that Natalie spoke to you. Can you tell me what she said?’

‘She told me she recognised me from the TV.’

‘Had you ever met Natalie before today?’

I’m trying to place her face, but I genuinely have no recollection of ever seeing her before being on that roof. She was wearing a cleaner’s tabard, and God only knows how many times I must have passed her in this building without noticing her. If only I’d been less wrapped up in my own world, maybe I could have done more.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I reply. ‘Did she work here?’

He shrugs. ‘I believe she was working for a cleaning company who recently took over the contract for this building, but I couldn’t tell you if she’d ever stepped foot inside the place before today. One of my colleagues is checking that at the moment. Do you recall whether Natalie said anything else to you?’

You need to find her. Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.

‘She mentioned someone called Sally Curtis, but I don’t know who that is. The inspector seemed to know though. When she first arrived, she asked Natalie if her being on the roof had anything to do with Sally.’

Daggard is nodding, scribbling something into his notepad. ‘I don’t know all the background, but from what I understand, Natalie’s friend Sally Curtis disappeared when the two of them were adolescents, some fifteen years ago. Natalie was one of the last people to see Sally alive and blamed herself for Sally disappearing. Been in and out of psychiatric institutions for a number of years, and this isn’t the first time Inspector Marcziesk has been called to talk Natalie down from a building.’

I can imagine some of the pain and guilt that must have been coursing through Natalie’s mind earlier today. I’ve felt the exact same thing.

Through it all, there’s still a tiny bell ringing at the back of my mind; the name Sally Curtis is definitely gnawing at my subconscious, beckoning me to recall why it seems so familiar.

‘Anything else you can remember about what Natalie said before…?’ He is desperately trying not to reference the suicide, but I sense it’s more for our benefit rather than because he’s uncomfortable.

‘Nothing at the moment,’ I admit reluctantly. ‘It all happened so quickly.’

He smiles warmly again before taking my contact details and passing me a business card with his. ‘If you do recall anything else, please don’t hesitate to call. If I’m unavailable, you can leave a message with a colleague who will ensure it is passed on.’

‘What will happen next?’

He narrows his eyes as he looks at me. ‘An autopsy will have to be performed to check that she hadn’t ingested something that spurred on her decision, but after that the case will be closed. There’s no reason to think there was anything untoward, given her history and previous attempts at suicide.’

‘How’s the inspector coping?’

‘She’s obviously disappointed that she wasn’t able to keep Natalie alive, but she’ll receive specialist counselling… which reminds me—’ He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a laminated flyer and hands it over. ‘I highly recommend the two of you seek some counselling too. PTSD can be a silent killer in its own way.’

I take the flyer, recalling the counselling I was forced to attend after Anna’s disappearance, and then my eyes widen in panic. ‘Oh God, I just remembered I’m supposed to be meeting Jack.’ I look down at Maddie, not wanting to leave her alone.

‘Go,’ she urges. ‘I’ll be fine, I promise.’

Chapter Nine
Now

Hyde Park, London

Hurrying through the bitter drizzle, I’m annoyed at myself for running late. I know how keen Jack Serrovitz has been for today to happen, and I promised I wouldn’t allow Maddie’s ability to drone on to get in the way of making a good first impression. I’m sure there’s probably a more direct route from London Bridge to Marble Arch, but I’m not a Londoner and I’m not yet au fait with how the underground network operates. I know there are different lines and a bazillion stations, but how they all interconnect is still beyond me. In fact, there probably was a quicker pedestrian route I could have taken, rather than relying on a black cab, but given everything that’s happened so far this morning, it was the simplest choice – and God knows I could do with some simplicity in my life right now.

I asked the driver to drop me at Marble Arch station, as Rachel had told me that was a short stroll from the entrance of Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park. Of all the places Jack could have picked for us to meet, this one is certainly picturesque… if not ridiculously overcrowded. Reaching the main entrance, I can see nothing but tourists, wrapped up against the cold, hustling and bustling past me. Checking my phone, I can see Jack has messaged to say they’ll wait for me by the ticket booth but I’ve no clue where that is, and I find myself being swept along and in through the entrance by the crowd. It’s only when I feel a firm hand on my shoulder that I realise Jack has located me, and he steers me out of the tide of tourists.

‘You made it then,’ he declares, though there really isn’t any need for the conversation to be awkward.

‘Yep,’ I reply, equally uncomfortable.

I’ve known Jack for a little over three months, since he helped me in the hunt for missing seven-year-old Cassie Hilliard. Jack was the police liaison that was organised for me to review the historic casefile, and despite a bumpy start, something like friendship has started to blossom since. He’s a nice guy – handsome, funny at times, and I know we wouldn’t have successfully located Cassie without his help and support.

But this is the first time Jack and I have seen each other since we visited Turgood at HMP Stafford. I wince as I recall the moment Jack informed me that pictures of my sister had been discovered on the hard drive, and then Turgood’s sneer appears behind my eyes again.

‘He wanted to rile you,’ Jack said afterwards, ‘but you shouldn’t let him get the better of you.’

Easy for him to say!

All I have left are three facts: my sister went missing twenty years ago, she was still alive when the video was made four years later, and Turgood knows more than he’s sharing.

Jack shuffles from one foot to the next as a cold breeze blows between us. He promised he would do whatever he could to make Turgood talk and wouldn’t stop until he’d helped me find Anna, but he’s not been able to offer anything more than words of encouragement. Turgood’s major heart attack eight weeks ago hasn’t helped matters. He’s currently considered ‘too ill to be interviewed’, from what Jack has told me. Too convenient if you ask me. At least karma appears to be in play for that belligerent monster.

The reason for today’s meeting is because Jack has been begging me to come and meet his daughter Mila. She’ll turn seven on Christmas Eve, which is less than a week away now, and I think it’s why he’s chosen Winter Wonderland as the venue for our introduction.

As we make it through the crowd and to a small clearing just beyond the ticket booths, it’s only now that I see Mila is holding his hand. Dressed in a faux-fur coat, leggings and ankle boots, she looks much older than her six years, but when she turns to face me, she is one of the prettiest girls I think I’ve ever seen. Her long dark hair hangs straight and loose down her back and when she smiles, I can see she has inherited her father’s goofy grin.

‘This is Mila,’ Jack gestures. ‘Mila, this is Daddy’s friend Emma.’

Mila extends her small hand, and does a half-curtsey as we shake.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mila,’ I say, with my most welcoming smile.

‘Are you Daddy’s girlfriend?’ she asks, without a trace of malice.

‘Um, well… no,’ I reply, thrown by the directness of the question, and glancing at Jack for help.

His cheeks have taken on a beetroot hue too, as he quickly stammers, ‘No, we talked about this, Mila. Emma is just a friend. Remember?’

‘We’re just friends,’ I concur.

‘Emma is that famous writer I was telling you about,’ Jack adds. ‘Remember? You said you wanted to meet her because you want to be a writer one day too.’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve decided I don’t want to be a writer any more,’ she corrects. ‘Seems like too much hard work.’

‘And what do you want to do instead, when you’re older?’ I ask inquisitively.

‘I’m going to ride horses at the Olympics, and then I’m going to be an actress.’ She says it so matter-of-factly that you’d think it had been pre-ordained from upon high and etched into a stone tablet.

In fairness, I never thought I’d end up writing professionally. I was a major bookworm when I was younger, but in hindsight I think it was just easier getting lost in a book than having to deal with the fallout of Anna’s disappearance. Reading made me want to write stories of my own, where I could control the narrative and the course of the characters; some would say that means I’m a bit of a control freak, but I would counter that I’m just a sucker for a happy ending.

‘You can’t even ride a horse,’ Jack chimes in, still confused by Mila’s self-predicted future.

‘Not yet, but when Santa brings me a horse for Christmas, then I’ll have to learn to ride, won’t I?’

I don’t know where to look; the expression on Jack’s face makes me want to howl with laughter, as he stutters to explain that Santa is highly unlikely to bring Mila a horse for Christmas. He stops short of telling her the truth about the big guy dressed in red.

‘Besides,’ he concludes, ‘a horse won’t fit down your mum’s chimney, will it? Plus, her garden isn’t big enough to accommodate livestock.’ He turns to face me, keen to change the subject. ‘Shall we go in now?’

I nod, stifling the laugh. Once through the entrance, we find ourselves in a muddy thoroughfare, with market-like stalls on both sides, already encouraging visitors to part with their hard-earned money. There are stalls with bespoke tree decorations, handmade fudge, speciality cheeses, and carved wooden ornaments. I have to be honest, I’m already starting to feel more relaxed and festive, and I have to catch myself before I get swept up in the atmosphere.

I feel awful for leaving Maddie to handle Sergeant Daggard’s questions alone, though I was relieved to see her showing him her certificate of training as I was leaving. She definitely didn’t do anything wrong in my eyes, and if necessary I’ll phone Sergeant Daggard myself and tell him as much. Whipping out my phone, I fire a message of support to Maddie, offering to return after this catch-up with Jack. I’m due to stay at Rachel’s flat in Ealing tonight, but we haven’t agreed a specific time for me to be home and I’m sure she’d understand my not wanting to leave Maddie alone after what happened. Undoubtedly, the suicide has already made the news headlines across the capital; certainly there were photographers gathered at the entrance to the building when I left. Thankfully, a small tent had been erected over where Natalie must have landed, so hopefully the front pages won’t be plastered with a gory shot.

‘Are you okay?’ Jack asks when we’ve made it through the stalls. ‘You seem distracted.’

I’m conscious that Mila can probably overhear anything we discuss and I don’t want to ruin her day. ‘I’ll tell you later. I’m sorry I was late arriving.’

‘You weren’t late, not really. Well, maybe by a few minutes, but I’d already taken into account the fact you’d probably get lost on the way from your agent’s office,’ he chuckles, to show he means no offence. ‘Listen, I promised Mila she could go skating on the ice, if you fancy it?’

I shake my head rapidly. ‘No, no, no, ice and I are not friends,’ I explain. ‘I never learned how to do it when I was a child, and then when Rachel and I were at university she said she’d teach me, so we went along to a rink one night, and despite her best efforts I ended up with a ligament strain in my knee and a behind that resembled a bruised banana. Don’t let me stop you two though. I don’t mind watching from the safety of the perimeter fence.’

‘Good heavens, no,’ Jack replies. ‘I can’t skate for toffee either, but Mila’s happy going on alone, aren’t you, sweetie?’

She nods, totally unfazed by the prospect, so that’s where we head, Jack paying for her to hire skates and then helping her strap them on. He joins me at the fence once she’s on the ice. I’ll admit to feeling pangs of jealousy at how effortlessly she can glide across the temporary rink. If she hopes for an Olympic medal one day, she’d be better off focusing her efforts on skating rather than equestrianism.

‘She’s a natural,’ I say, as Jack snaps some pictures of her on his phone.

‘I’d like to take the credit but her mum’s been taking her skating since she could first walk.’ He puts the phone away. ‘I’m glad we’ve got a moment to talk without her earwigging. I wanted to ask how you’re doing?’

‘Me? I’m fine.’

Jack turns so he’s looking straight at me, and I can see the concern etched around his eyes. ‘Are you sure? I know we’ve spoken a few times on the phone since, and shared emails, but I sense you’re still carrying the burden of what Turgood said when we went to see him, and—’

‘Turgood is lying,’ I say with certainty, ‘but short of beating the truth out of him, there isn’t a lot more either of us can do about that, is there?’

Jack doesn’t respond at first, but continues to stare into my eyes. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t the news you were hoping for. Believe me, I’ve met my fair share of Turgoods, and monsters like him get off on thinking they know more than the rest of us. You have to remember that you beat him before. If it wasn’t for your extensive research and determination, he would never have been brought to justice for the abuse he oversaw at St Francis. You’re the reason the police opened an investigation into the home. You’re the reason he was tried and sentenced at The Old Bailey. And you’re the reason he will never be able to repeat those abuses.’

But I’m also the reason that Anna stomped off that day.

Jack brushes a stray hair from my face, and gently tucks it behind my ear. ‘Have you had any new leads emerge on the website you set up for Anna?’

After the success of Monsters and the media attention when Cassie Hilliard was found, there had been a spike in the number of messages I received through the site, but these were words of support rather than clues as to where she might be.

I wish someone could find a bittersweet ending for my story.

‘Nothing new,’ I say despondently.

‘Is that why you’re so distracted today?’

I shake my head. ‘When I was at Maddie’s office, a woman died by suicide after throwing herself from the roof.’

Jack is blinking at me, maybe trying to work out if I’m trying to prank him. ‘Seriously?’

I nod. ‘Check your phone; I’m sure it’s probably trending on Twitter. Her name was Natalie and she must have been about my age, give or take. One minute she was there, and the next…’

Tears bite at my eyes.

Jack puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his fleece coat.

‘I’m so sorry. You should have said… We could have postponed today.’

‘It was a bit late,’ I say, relaxing into his grasp. ‘I’ll be okay. I was going to ask actually… the woman – Natalie – had something to do with the disappearance of a girl called Sally Curtis. I wondered if it was a case you’re familiar with?’

Jack shakes his head. ‘Not a name that rings any bells with me, I’m afraid. Certainly not a name that’s tied to any of the backlog of cases I’m currently reviewing. Do you have any more detail? Where she disappeared? When?’

‘No, just the name unfortunately. It’s definitely a name I’ve come across but I can’t quite figure out why. Never mind.’

Jack’s giving me a cock-eyed smile.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘That look in your eyes.’ He sniggers. ‘I’ve seen it before. When we first met in September you had that look then as well.’

I don’t know what look he’s referring to, but I won’t deny that Natalie’s final words have piqued my interest.

You need to find her. Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.

Chapter Ten
Then

Wareham, Dorset

The walk to school on Monday morning was a lot more painful than Natalie had anticipated. After the grilling from her mum and dad, she’d ended up leaving late and missing the early bus. She preferred catching the early bus as it was always quieter than the later one. By the time she reached the bus stop, the line was already ten-deep with students of varying ages. On any normal day, she would have had time to bypass the bus stop and walk to school before the morning bell sounded, but with every step such agony, her pace was much slower today.

When the bus had arrived, it had already been packed with teenagers wearing the same dark green blazer and tie as herself. There were no seats available, but at least the bus driver allowed her to squeeze on, perched perilously just behind the yellow line. Three stops later, and she was practically bundled from the bus as the throng of students pushed forwards to get in through the gates to see friends and copy homework before the bell.

Natalie had looked for, but failed to find, either Louise or Jane in their usual hangout at the far side of the playground near the enormous sports centre. When the bell had sounded, she’d hobbled as quickly as she could in through the main doors, up the stairs to the first floor, and along to class 9-E. No sign of Louise or Jane in their seats either, though the space at Sally’s desk was almost haunting. Natalie deliberately kept her eyes from looking over at the desk, as if Sally’s absence was news to her, as it would have been to most of her other classmates, who were shouting and cooing and gossiping about last night’s Hollyoaks.

Mrs Engleberry – their registration tutor – arrived two minutes later, and was just wishing everyone a good morning when a knock at the door was followed by Louise and Jane scuttling in and taking their seats on the far side of the class. With heads bowed, they quickly apologised for being late, but neither looked at Sally’s desk and both avoided eye contact with Natalie.

When the second bell sounded to announce assembly, Natalie did her best to cut through the flow of classmates to stand beside Louise and Jane, but both were too far ahead and showed no interest in waiting for her.

Louise is probably just feeling guilty about slapping my cheek last night, Natalie tried to reassure herself, though in truth it should have been her avoiding them after what had happened, and she wasn’t enjoying this cold-shoulder treatment.

What about the pact? They were supposed to be in this together, weren’t they? Didn’t that mean banding together and supporting one another through thick and thin?

Assembly was as irrelevant as ever but a real strain for Natalie to remain standing for the entire fifteen minutes of sermons, school hymn and notices. The fact that the canteen was serving spaghetti carbonara was hardly newsworthy; besides, they’d all see the canteen menu when they went in for lunch anyway.

Natalie finally managed to collar the pair of them at mid-morning break, having twice missed them before and after double-science. She didn’t want them to know she suspected they’d been avoiding her all morning, but she couldn’t keep from checking that they’d both stuck to the plan so far.

‘Sally’s mum was on the phone to mine first thing,’ Natalie bowled out with right away.

Before she could check whether their mums had received similar calls, Louise grabbed Natalie’s arm hard, pinching the skin, and yanked her out of earshot of anyone else.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Louise snapped.

Natalie rubbed her arm gingerly. ‘What? All I asked was—’

The spiked glare fired by Louise was enough to stop Natalie repeating her mistake. ‘Jane and I were thinking that it’s probably best if the three of us just lay low today. Yeah? Don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Sally’s mum is bound to have phoned the school to say that… she won’t be coming in today, but it’s probably too early for her to phone the police.’

Natalie’s eyes widened but she didn’t speak.

The police? Natalie hadn’t even thought through the full repercussions of what they’d done last night. Would the police really get involved? Natalie had been so concerned with just getting home without her parents discovering she’d snuck out that she hadn’t dared to fast forward to possible ramifications.

‘So we’ve just got to stick to our story, yeah? We’re all agreed? Last night didn’t happen. None of us snuck out, none of us went to the woods and we don’t know what happened to… her.’

But we did sneak out, Natalie wanted to roar, and we do know what happened to Sally.

‘What’s with the face, Nat?’ Louise challenged.

Natalie met her gaze but had no idea what shapes her face was pulling.

‘Have you already told someone?’ Louise continued.

‘What? No,’ Natalie spat back. ‘I wouldn’t!’

Louise was eyeing her suspiciously and then something silent passed between Louise and Jane, but Natalie had no idea what the exchange meant.

‘I swear to you! I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘What about your mum and dad?’

‘Nobody, I swear.’

‘What did they say about your leg?’

Natalie looked down to where both girls were now staring, and saw evidence of the dark patch seeping through the large plaster beneath her dark tights. She’d known the walk to the bus would be too much, and clearly her efforts to clean and treat the wound had failed. She hadn’t been able to bring a spare plaster in case the first one failed, and now she’d have to try and snatch one from the medical bay. If she told the school nurse that she needed it for her leg, the nurse would insist on examining the wound, and then alarm bells would sound.

‘You’d better get that cleaned up,’ Louise said, her words delivered with no empathy.

Louise and Jane began to move away, until Natalie reached out for Jane’s arm. It was clear Louise had appointed herself the new leader of the group, but Jane had said nothing to suggest she was in complete agreement with Louise’s suggested approach. Jane had always been a bit of a sheep so it was no surprise that she’d yet to speak out against Louise. If Natalie could exert some control of her own, then maybe Jane could be persuaded to her way of thinking instead.

‘Jane, would you be able to help me to the nurse’s office?’

Jane’s eyes widened and she looked to Louise for an answer.

‘No,’ Louise confirmed. ‘We agreed it’s best if we all go our separate ways today. If the nurse sees two of you and that leg, she’s going to start asking questions – the kind of questions that neither of you are up to answering. Trust me; it’s better this way.’

Jane didn’t look back, pulling her arm away and following Louise the shepherd.

The day dragged to lunchtime. Natalie had tried to make up a story about a fellow student injuring a hand, but it had been a bad idea to lie to the nurse about the real reason she required a large plaster. She’d eventually relented and pointed at the stain beneath her tights, but had refused to remove her tights to allow the nurse to see the wound. With little other choice, the nurse had handed over the plaster, and Natalie had hurried off to the girls’ toilets to swap it over.

She had winced and silently wept as she pulled the old one off. The wound had looked deeper somehow than when she’d cleaned it in the shower this morning, but it was probably just the amount of fresh blood that seemed to be weeping from it. She did her best to dab it with tissue paper, but even that stung, so she had dabbed for as long as she could before squashing the fresh plaster over the top. Wrapping the old plaster in more tissue, she’d dropped it into the dustbin before she’d hobbled back to class.

When the lunch bell sounded, she hadn’t wanted to leave the classroom, such was the burn and ache in the area surrounding the wound, but Mrs Engleberry had insisted everyone leave the room so she could go and have her lunch. Natalie had made her way to the lunch hall, sat alone, and eaten the spaghetti carbonara she had ordered. It had tasted cold by the time she’d made it to her seat so she’d only managed half of it before giving up; she didn’t have an appetite, what with everything running through her mind.

How different things might have been had she not bowed to Sally’s pressure and agreed to meet them at the gap in the perimeter fence. Sally might still be missing, but at least Natalie wouldn’t be living with the guilt of her own part in the sticky mess. But then, had she not agreed to go with them, maybe Sally would be here now.

Louise and Jane were the last to return to the class, and for all of Louise’s noise about them all staying apart, the two of them had remained suspiciously close. Natalie had never felt as isolated as she did in that moment. She wasn’t entirely to blame for what had happened, and if those two were planning to tell the truth, and hang her out to dry, then she would need to be ready with her own version of events. But who could she turn to when the truth had such implications? Once upon a time, she would have trusted Louise with any and all secrets, but a line had been drawn, and even in Sally’s absence, it appeared there would be no return to the old ways… to the better times.

Mrs Engleberry was late back to class and when she did enter, there was a tall woman in a business suit alongside her.

‘Class 9-E, quiet, please,’ Mrs Engleberry told them, and the hum of chatter instantly quietened. ‘Good, thank you. Before we get going with our French lesson, a couple of you are needed to speak with Detective Constable Fiona Rimmington. So, Louise Renner, Jane Constantine, and Natalie Sullivan, please go with DC Rimmington now, and wait in Mr Panko’s office until she’s ready to speak to you. Don’t worry, girls, you’re not in any trouble.’

Natalie’s head snapped from the tall detective to Louise, but her former best friend made no reaction to the news. She was cool as a cucumber, whilst every bone in Natalie’s body sensed that the truth of last night was about to spill, and it was only a question of which of them cracked first.

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