Her Deadly Secret
CHRIS CURRAN

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

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

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Chris Curran 2017

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

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

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

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

Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780008261320

Version 2017-09-28

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Chris Curran

About the Publisher

Dedication

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

What would I do without you?

Chapter One

Joe

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

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

The kind of place where bad things happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosie

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

Body found in search for missing teenager.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mummy, Muuum.’

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

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

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

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

‘No, I want Doogie Dog, not that.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

Joe

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

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

But this was nothing like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loretta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lily, can’t believe you’re gone.

One more angel in heaven.

Missing you, babe.

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m sorry. You must miss her.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You weren’t friends anymore?’

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

‘So you fell out? You had a fight?’

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

‘Do you know this boy’s other name?’

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

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

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

‘So he doesn’t go to your school?’

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

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

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

Chapter Three

Rosie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘There’s nothing to say, Mum.’

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

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

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

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

‘But if you just talked to him.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No. Just that Dad didn’t.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What are you talking about?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And were they?’

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

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

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

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

Joe stared, thinking he must have heard wrong.

‘You know, The Children of Light.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘They threatened her?’

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

‘And it stopped?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he woke, Hannah was gone.