The Child(93)
“They don’t remember anything?” Al’s eyes had lit up. “Maybe slipping them something to keep them quiet is the way forward,” Al had said. “Look, we should team up. I’ve got the contacts and party invites, you’ve got the know-how, Will. Perfect combination.”
? ? ?
It had been fun picking targets—they went for a variety of ages and types just to challenge themselves—and dangerous. Thrillingly dangerous. Barbara had been a mistake—she hadn’t drunk enough of her drink for the drug to work properly and they hadn’t noticed in their haste—but she hadn’t told anyone. He’d made sure of that.
And Emma. Well, the risk had been worth it.
He wondered if she’d made up the pregnancy. He’d definitely worn a condom for the photo session—he always did to cover his traces—but he couldn’t remember now if he’d worn one in the car. Or if Emma remembered the photo of Barbara. Didn’t really matter now.
No one will believe her, even if she does go to the police. Not with a history of mental illness. Sad woman, he thought.
He poured himself another cup of Earl Grey and allowed himself a stroll down memory lane. A frisson of nostalgia. Pity he hadn’t kept any of the photos.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Angela
TUESDAY, MAY 1, 2012
The weekend with Louise had started disastrously. Her daughter had booked them both a spa break, telling Angela she could have a massage and they could just relax away from everything. But the place was full of hen parties with shrieking women in the Jacuzzi and drinking games in the lounges.
Louise and Angela had retreated to their overheated twin-bedded room when it all got too much and pretended to read their books while they waited for their treatments. Angela had noticed that her daughter’s bookmark didn’t move over the whole two days they were there. It still stuck out an inch from the cover. But she had been no better, hiding her thoughts behind the beach novel she’d brought with her.
She didn’t tell Louise she’d cried during the massages; the soothing hands of the beauticians had made her feel suddenly defenseless and she’d felt she had to apologize. Everyone was very understanding when she explained—a bit too interested in one case and Angela had found herself telling all the details of Alice’s disappearance as she lay naked on a table.
By Sunday night, both of them had been ready to go home, but they’d paid until Monday morning and so they stayed. Angela was so glad they had because, with the bridal mobs gone, they could sit together and talk.
Louise had told her mother what it had been like growing up in a family tainted by tragedy. She’d held nothing back for the first time, even admitting that she’d hated Alice at times for ruining everyone’s happiness.
“I know she was just a baby, Mum, but I never thought of her like that. I never knew her. There were no pictures. She was just this black cloud hanging over everything. No one could talk about it in case we made you cry. I am glad she’s been found, Mum, but she’s still making you cry.”
Angela had been mortified. She’d been so bound up in her own feelings, and her determination to protect her children from them, that she hadn’t noticed their unhappiness.
“Your dad said I shouldn’t talk about it, after a while, because I was upsetting you and Patrick,” she explained. “I wish I’d known how you felt. I’ll try not to cry anymore, Lou. You’re right. We need to get on with our lives now. We’ll have the funeral for Alice as a family—is that all right?”
Louise had nodded and reached for her mother’s hand. “Of course, Mum.”
“And then I’ll concentrate on the future,” Angela had said. “On you and Patrick and the grandchildren.”
? ? ?
Angela’s head had been clearer when she came home and she had started talking to the local vicar about a funeral service for Alice and thinking about hymns and readings. She felt better than she had for weeks and Nick had stopped fussing over her every move.
“You look well, love,” he’d said that morning. “Do you fancy going out for something to eat tonight? It’s been months since I took you anywhere.”
And she’d smiled at him and said yes.
But an hour later, DC Turner rang. Angela had answered the call and mouthed “Wendy” at Nick. She’d been glad to hear from her—she wanted to ask the officer about when they could have Alice’s service, but DC Turner cut her off.
“Have you heard from anyone from the press today, Angela?”
“No, Wendy. Why, what’s happened?”
“Andy Sinclair is on his way down with me. We’ll be there in half an hour, so sit tight. It’s probably best if you don’t answer the phone until we get there.”
“My God, what’s happened?”
“Let’s talk about it when we arrive, Angela. Is Nick there?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. See you soon.”
They’d sat and waited in the living room, watching for the car. And when DI Sinclair and DC Turner knocked, Angela was too shaky to stand.
Nick ushered the officers into the room and Wendy went immediately to sit with Angela and took her hand.
DI Sinclair looked tired and depressed. He slumped down on the chair by the window and looked at her and Nick. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, “but it was important to talk to you in person.”