The Silent Ones: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller(20)
‘Do you know what the girls were doing on Conmore Street, Mum? It’s quite a walk from your house.’ I have to push for answers, for Maddy’s sake.
Mum holds her handkerchief up to her nose and sniffs.
‘They didn’t even tell us they were going over there, so how would we know what they were doing?’ Dad leans over and hugs Mum into his side.
‘I didn’t realise the girls knew Bessie well,’ I remark.
Dad shrugs. ‘They’ve been at ours when Bessie has visited, listened to her stories about the war.’
Mum’s hugging Chloe, Dad’s hugging Mum, and I’m sitting here saying the wrong thing every time I open my mouth.
We’re all startled when there’s a tap at the door and DS March enters the room, looking round cautiously at us.
‘DI Neary has asked me to let you know there’s been a development.’ She leans against the small table next to the door and grips the edge behind her back. ‘The press haven’t been informed yet, and he’s asked you don’t repeat the information outside of this room for now.’
I blow out air. The immovable weight that settled on my chest when the police came to the lock-up shifts slightly for the first time.
Have they discovered they’ve made a terrible mistake and our girls are innocent after all? I feel the rigidity in my neck and shoulders soften slightly.
‘What’s happened?’ Chloe asks, her voice strained and tight. She pulls herself away from Mum and sits up straight.
I make a rapid, silent pledge in my head. Please, please, please, God, make it be OK and I’ll never complain about anything again.
‘Sadly, we’ve just heard that Bessie Wilford has died from her injuries in hospital without regaining consciousness.’ DS March speaks slowly, enunciating her words with care. ‘It’s important the girls don’t know this for now.’
The room is silent, the air still.
The detective looks at Chloe and me.
‘DI Neary thought you might want to get your brief back in here.’ She hesitates. ‘I’m afraid we’re no longer investigating an assault; we’re now looking at a possible murder inquiry.’
Twelve
2001
Joan Voce sat back in the raspberry-velvet-upholstered armchair that used to belong to her grandmother and watched her two daughters put on their performance.
They’d been bored to death in the school holidays, and sick of hearing them grumbling, Joan had suggested they choreograph a gymnastic show. They’d been practising for days now in the back garden.
It was the sort of thing she herself had loved to do as a child: walkover into bridge, cartwheels, back bends… to name but a few. She’d had a talent for it, been so flexible and strong.
When she watched Chloe move, Joan could almost whisk herself back to those young, carefree days that seemed so long ago.
Ray had taken three-year-old Corey out bug-hunting for the afternoon. Their youngest child had been a mistake after a rare boozy night out, although Ray hated to hear her say that. The child undoubtedly brought them joy, but he also brought exhaustion on a whole new level for Joan.
At thirty-nine years old when she fell pregnant, she’d been the oldest mother in her antenatal class, and still remembered the humiliation of the younger women sniggering behind their hands. It hadn’t done her anxiety much good, and with a fractious young baby to contend with, her peaceful house and stable mood had swiftly become things of the past.
She’d felt constantly bone tired, yet she was unable to sleep at night once she got into bed. She’d lost interest in everything around her, even her beloved reading and baking. Nothing gave her pleasure any more.
The girls and Ray adored the baby, but Joan just couldn’t seem to feel a bond with him.
Ray had begged her to make an appointment to see the doctor, but Joan steadfastly refused. The last thing she wanted to be bothered with was having to get ready and go down to the surgery. It was a small village, and the worst gossips worked behind the GP’s reception desk.
Then one day Dr Rahman had appeared at the front door. Joan had flown into a fury with Ray and stomped upstairs, but the doctor simply followed her up there and within a few minutes had diagnosed postnatal depression. He’d prescribed powerful antidepressants to help her cope, and Joan had been taking them ever since.
She had rediscovered her love of reading and baking, and had even taken up cross-stitch. They were all pastimes that required peace and quiet, and that wasn’t always easy to come by. But thanks to Ray, she had a little time to herself that afternoon, and once the girls had got their silly performance out of the way, she would be heading upstairs to bed to enjoy an hour reading her new Jilly Cooper novel.
She studied the two girls, who’d dressed in bright colours and tied ribbons in their hair for the occasion.
Of the two of them, thirteen-year-old Chloe was clearly the performer, as Joan herself had been. In her youth, she had nurtured a secret dream of competing in professional competitions, performing at national level as a rhythmic gymnast. So many people had said she was good enough to give it a go.
Her chest tightened as she remembered the cruel cackle of her grandmother, Irma, when, aged twelve, she had finally confided in her and asked if she could travel to London for a rare weekend of open auditions for the junior British gymnastics heats.