Silent Victim(10)

CHAPTER TEN

EMMA





2017


The keys of the quad bike felt cold and sharp in the palm of my hand. It was Dad’s bike. Like everything else, he had left it to me after he died. His painful passing was granted by a lifetime of chain-smoking. After Mum left, he stopped caring if he lived or died. She’d been just twenty-two when she’d met my much older father. As a single parent, estranged from her family, she had struggled to cope with Theresa on her own. Dad had taken them both in and brought them back to Mersea Island. But their marriage had not been a happy one. Dad had said that Mum’s was a spirit that could not be tamed. It was her Romany blood, he said, her wanderlust that drew her away. Pulling on my boots, I dismissed my thoughts, forcing my focus on to the task in hand. My head was filled with spirits of the past. It was a wonder I could function normally at all. I sat on the bike, the strong rumble of the engine beneath me. With Theresa covering, I had a couple of hours before I had to pick Jamie up from play school. I zipped up my jacket as I glanced warily at the sky. Pearl-grey clouds rolled above me, their bellies full of unshed rain. I needed to move quickly. I would get just one chance.

The wind burned my cheeks as I bumped along the torn-up path, my fingers tightly clenched around the throttle. I motored across the landscape, a chill driving its way down my back. It was accompanied by a strong feeling of déjà vu. Left unfertilised, the land had fallen prey to the ravages of time. Clutches of ragwort lined my path: a mass of dying yellow heads and ragged leaves, swaying in their last dance of the season. I parted my lips, tasting the faint kiss of salt in the air. My relationship with Mersea was a strange addiction. It was more than protecting the evidence of what I had done that kept me here. It didn’t matter where I moved – I knew that this strange, haunting place would be a part of me for ever.

I eased off on the throttle as I caught sight of the oak tree on the border of our land. A mist clung around its leafless branches, draining the colour from the world. My stomach tightened and I drew in a sharp breath, slowing my bike further. I was not ready for this. My shovel rattled on the back as I hit a bump in the path, another reminder of what I had done. Taking a deep breath, I whispered a mantra to distract myself from the thoughts running loose in my head. ‘I’m going to get through this, I’m going to get through this,’ I repeated in a desperate prayer.

Before switching off the engine, I faced the bike for home, ready for a quick escape. Tugging at the rope, I untied my shovel from the back of the bike. Why had I kept it? Luke’s DNA was surely embedded in its metal, in the wooden grooves of the handle. Perhaps I had left it there in the subconscious hope of being discovered. If only things had turned out differently. I caught the thought as it rose in the ether and wondered if I meant it. I had felt nothing but relief that Luke was gone. The realisation gave me the strength to carry on. I still knew the exact spot and I clawed away the obstacles until there was nothing but clear ditch to dig. There was something final about this moment, and my heart pounded in my chest as I disobeyed the urge to drop my shovel and run. I approached the ditch, expecting the scent of death to rise up to greet me, but there was only damp moss and rotting leaves. Goosebumps rose on my skin and I willed myself to get on with it. Slicing the shovel into the earth, I drew back a wad of soil, repeating the movement until my arms ached – just as they had done that day. I expected to glimpse a scrap of white material, a flash of a weather-ravaged jacket. But there was nothing. I dug further. Surely there should be something by now? Clothes, shoes, bone? Getting on my hands and knees, I burrowed my fingers into the earth. I did not know how I was going to cope with seeing the body again. Or what was left of it. Sweat lined my skin, and I raised an arm to hook back a loose lock of damp hair from my face. It was the worst kind of torture but I made myself push on.

Half an hour later, I was staring in disbelief at the shallow yet somehow body-less grave. Had animals dragged it away? I remembered his shoes peeping out through the soil. Where were they? Surely something had to remain? I checked my watch, gasping as I realised just how long I had taken. I needed to have a shower, get changed and pick up Jamie. Pulling off my gloves, I stared down at the red angry blisters that had formed on my skin. Only then did I feel the sharp sting of pain. It had been for nothing. My throat constricted as another emotion bubbled to the surface. Panic. There was no doubt I was at the right spot. Luke was dead. I had killed him.

So where had he gone?





CHAPTER ELEVEN

LUKE





2002


I straightened my posture as I sat at my desk. Parents’ evening was a bit of a chore, giving up my free time to speak to mums and dads about a subject they were rarely interested in. But there was one student I was looking forward to finding out more about. I had purposely booked her father into the last appointment so I could take my time. Yet as the gasping, frail man entered my classroom, I wondered if I had got my times mixed up. This could not be Emma’s father, surely? Emma had told me her dad was unwell, but just the same I had expected a more exotic parentage than this. I had allowed my imagination to run away with me; the old man now ambling in brought me sharply down to earth.

Parents were encouraged to bring their children with them so they could show them around the school and absorb the points brought up during the meetings. But Bob Hetherington was alone, and I wondered if Emma had been too embarrassed to tag along. His tall frame was slightly bent, his face a pallid grey hue. The deep lines on his face spoke of time spent outdoors. Slowly, he made it to my desk, walking with as much grace as he could muster. A strong smell of cough drops exuded from his breath as he introduced himself, wheezing into a handkerchief before shaking my hand.