‘You bastard,’ she said aloud, ‘you fucking bastard … ’ Her voice was borne away on the wind.
It was here that she had almost died. It was here that she had been born.
Or reborn.
Three years ago a homicidal maniac had kidnapped her and hidden her in a basement underneath the caravan in the field, wanting her unborn baby, the child who would grow up to be Josephina. Phil, leading the hunt for the killer, had eventually traced him to this spot and come to rescue her. He had joined her in the cellar’s labyrinthine tunnels, trying to capture the madman. But ultimately it was Marina who had stopped his murderous spree and protected their unborn child. It was Marina who had killed him.
And that was when she had been reborn.
After that, she had known who she was. How much she would stand. The lengths she would go to to protect her own. She had thought the voice on the phone didn’t know that. Now, she had to concede, perhaps they did.
Then she heard it.
Love Will Tear Us Apart.
She grabbed the phone from her bag, put it to her ear.
‘You arrived?’ said the voice. ‘No trouble getting here?’
‘You bastard,’ she said.
Silence. Then: ‘What d’you mean?’ The tone was harsh but inquisitive.
‘You know what I mean. Bringing me here.’
Another silence. ‘I thought you would remember this place.’
‘Oh, you’re damn right I do.’
The voice sounded confused but tried to appear to be in control, without much success. ‘I’m … surprised it means that much to you.’
Anger was rising within Marina. ‘Funny fucker.’ Spat out.
‘You’re in Wrabness.’
‘I know I’m in Wrabness.’
‘And you’ve been here before.’
‘Well done, Einstein. It was all over the papers.’
Another silence. Marina began to think the voice had been cut off. Eventually it replied.
‘Just … You’ll be getting an email in a moment. It’ll tell you what to do next.’
‘So that’s all this is for, is it? A really unpleasant trip down memory lane?’
‘Look … ’
‘No, you look.’ The anger was welling in Marina, threatening to burst. ‘You blow up my family, kidnap my daughter and then bring me out here. I’ve dealt with some sick bastards in my time, but you’re … ’ She could no longer find the words.
‘Now listen.’ The voice was getting angry too. Marina listened. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. Yes, you’ve been here before. That’s why you were chosen. That’s why we wanted you. But … ’ A sigh. ‘Read the email.’
The line went dead.
Marina held the phone in her shaking fist. Stared at it. She looked back at the crumbling farmhouse. Over to the broken wall, the rusting caravan. Then back to the river, the sand. Bleak, desolate. She shivered. Phil wouldn’t be coming to save her this time.
She felt something harden with her. No more, she thought. No more. She had already discovered what she would do to protect her family once already on this spot. The revisit just confirmed it. Whoever was on the other end of the phone, it was time to stand up to them.
The phone pinged. She opened the email, began to read.
And, slowly, began to understand.
32
‘Jeff? Dead? Well, it was to be expected, I suppose. He was a very sick man.’
‘He was, Mrs Hibbert.’
‘Call me Helen. I’ve never liked being called Mrs Hibbert. Makes me sound like his mother.’ She took a deep breath, a mouthful of vodka and tonic. ‘And God, that’s one thing I never wanted to be like.’ Helen Hibbert shuddered at the thought.
Jessie James couldn’t see this woman as anyone’s mother. She would hate the competition for attention. In the car on the way over to Jeff Hibbert’s estranged wife’s flat, Jessie had put forward her version of what Helen Hibbert would be like. It was a game she often played with Deepak, a way to get him not to rely on profiles and generics, make his own mind up, think laterally, outside the box. She sometimes tried to make it competitive, put a bit of money on it, see whose description was closest. Loser bought lunch. He hardly ever bit. It didn’t stop Jessie from trying, though.
‘I reckon she’ll be like him,’ Jessie had said. ‘Middle-aged, dumpy. Short hair, cut like a bloke. Big lumpen face. Like a farmer’s wife. Or a farmer. Kitted out in Barbour’s finest.’
Deepak, driving, had surprised her by volunteering an opinion. ‘Dead wrong,’ he had said.
Jessie smiled, genuinely curious now. ‘Makes you say that?’
‘You’re thinking in terms of generics,’ he said. ‘Letting prejudices get in the way.’ He gave her a quick glance. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Oh, am I now? Well, what’s your highly individual, non-prejudiced opinion, then?’
‘Younger than him, definitely.’
‘You reckon?’
‘And blonde.’
‘Why blonde?’
‘You asked for my opinion, ma’am. I think blonde. But not necessarily naturally.’
‘Obviously.’
‘She’ll be more outgoing, more flashy than him. He’ll have had a hard time keeping up with her.’
‘Really? And on what do you base these non-prejudicial assumptions, then?’
‘Police work, ma’am. Their house has seen better days. So had their marriage. What ornaments there are in the place were quite expensive at one time. A woman’s taste, not a man’s.’
‘Not my taste.’
‘Or mine. But someone liked them enough to buy them. I think she’s got big blonde hair, dresses flashily, spends a lot on make-up, beauty treatments, that kind of thing.’
‘Because that’s the kind of woman who would buy those ornaments?’
Deepak nodded. ‘Are we betting lunch on this?’ A small smile played on his lips.
I’m encouraging my junior officer, she thought. It’s my job. ‘Why not?’
Deepak had been spot on. The flat was along Common Quay, in the newly gentrified waterfront area of Ipswich. She had buzzed them up when they told her they were police officers and it concerned her husband, held their warrant cards up to the video entryphone to prove who they were.
In the lift, Jessie had smiled at Deepak. ‘Doing well so far … ’
Once inside, Jessie realised immediately that she owed Deepak lunch. Helen Hibbert had deliberately arranged herself for their visit. She sat in the corner of her flat, one tanned leg crossing the other, a view of the Ipswich waterfront behind her, as if she was, literally, above all that. She was perfectly made up, her nails just manicured. Jessie imagined her nails always looked just manicured. Her dress and shoes were designer, Jessie noted, and, as Deepak had said, she was blonde. Her face, like her body, was composed. Helen Hibbert had been younger than her husband but not by much. It was clear that, despite all the treatments she had received, her skin was loosening, the crow’s feet were lengthening and it probably took her longer each day to keep looking as she did. Time was catching her up.
She had offered them drinks, gesturing to her own sparkling vodka tonic.
‘I know you might think it’s early, but really, it doesn’t matter. It’s cocktail hour somewhere in the world.’
Jessie had told her about her husband and how they had found him dead. And Helen Hibbert had performed a near note-perfect grieving widow act.
‘Poor Jeff.’ A sigh. ‘Poor, poor Jeff … ’
Poor is right, thought Jessie, thinking of the squalor he had lived and died in. Must have been some divorce settlement.
‘There was something about his death,’ said Jessie, as airily as possible.