The Other People: A Novel(59)

“Yes.”

“Then show me.”

“They were encrypted. Only available to view for twenty-four hours before they deleted.”

“Then call this woman,” Gabe said. “Tell her you need to meet.”

“It won’t work.”

“Make up some story. Convince her. You’re good at lying.”

“I tried to call her after I received your message. There’s no answer.”

“Try again.”

“You don’t understand. The number is unavailable. Even if I wanted to help you, I can’t. She’s gone.”

Gone. With Izzy. Gabe wanted to punch the wall in frustration. And then he remembered DI Maddock’s words: “We found the car. We found another victim nearby. A woman.”

“Harry, when I told you I’d found the car, did you tell the woman?”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “Yes.”

“Christ!”

“What?” Harry looked at him strangely.

“There was a body in the trunk, badly decomposed. It had been there a while. When the police pulled the car out of the lake today, they found a woman nearby, barely alive.”

Gabe saw the realization dawn in Harry’s watery eyes. “You think it’s the woman who took Izzy?”

“I think, after you told her I’d found the car, she went back, maybe to destroy the evidence.”

“But, if it’s her, then—”

“Where the hell is my daughter?”





When the Titanic was sinking, the band continued to play. Everyone had heard that story. But often, Katie wondered why. Denial, duty or simply the need to focus on something familiar and comforting when all else was lost? When the worst had happened.

She felt a bit like she was playing on the Titanic this morning. Or fiddling while Rome burned. Doing all the normal things, when nothing about this was normal at all.

She poured out cornflakes, splashed milk into bowls, buttered toast and poured glasses of orange juice. She made a cup of tea then settled Sam and Gracie in front of the TV in the living room while she searched in the tumble dryer for missing school cardigans and socks. All the while trying to ignore the voice inside her head that kept screaming: Iceberg! Iceberg!

Have you seen me? I think it’s you.

Alice (she wasn’t ready to answer to Izzy) was still in bed. It had been gone 11 p.m. by the time Katie had wearily tucked her in. She had absorbed the revelation calmly. Worryingly so. Despite Katie’s best efforts to coax more out of her, Alice claimed not to remember anything about the night her mum died. Just that it was something bad. Fran had saved her. She repeated it like a mantra, like she had learned it off by heart. But Katie wasn’t so sure.

It was true that most children, once they reached eight or nine, would forget events from their earliest years. Childhood amnesia. Something to do with how fast the brain is growing and laying down new neural pathways.

But, if Katie was right and Alice was who she thought she was, she would have just turned five when her mother was murdered. Old enough to summon up some memories, even if her brain had done its own whitewash job to protect her from the trauma.

Memories didn’t just evaporate like steam. They were more like lost keys. You might have put them somewhere for safekeeping or thrown them into a deep well because you didn’t ever want to unlock that particular door again, but they were still there, somewhere. You just had to find a way to retrieve them.

Her first instinct had been to call Gabe. He deserved to know that his daughter was alive. That he had been right, all along. And if Alice saw her daddy, maybe some of those memories of her former life would come back to her.

But then, Katie had caught herself. Gabe might still be in the hospital. And Alice needed rest; she needed time to let this settle. If Gabe insisted on seeing her straight away (which he would), it could all be too much. For both of them. Besides, Katie wanted to be sure. She didn’t want to get the poor man’s hopes up just to dash them again.

After she had put Alice to bed, she spent several hours scouring the internet for information about the murders. Three years ago (so, the girl’s age was right). It had been all over the television and newspapers at the time. No one had ever been caught and there seemed to be no motive, certainly not after Gabe was absolved. No robbery. No sign of forced entry. Like the killer had just been invited in.

And maybe she had, Katie thought. After all, who would feel threatened by a woman with a child?

She felt a coldness steal in and wrap itself around her heart. What was she suggesting? That Fran was somehow involved. But what about her daughter? If Alice was telling the truth, she’d been killed, too. Katie refused to believe that Fran would let her own child come to harm. So, what was the alternative? Was Fran just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was the answer somewhere in between? Was she an accomplice? Drawn into a situation that spiraled out of control? Where the only option left was to save one child and run? But from who?

She thought about the postcard again.

I did it for Dad.

Katie picked up her mug of tea and took a sip. Predictably, it had gone cold. Sometimes, it seemed like her entire life was measured out in undrunk mugs of tea. She was just about to pour it away and make another when the front doorbell rang. She jumped. Christ, her nerves were shot this morning.