‘However, Cambridgeshire Constabulary have confirmed they are reopening the case in light of new evidence, and are commissioning a brand-new reconstruction of the tragic events of early January 1998.’
It’s a film of the same girl from the hospital, only this time she and another girl are walking along a street of new, cheap houses, talking and laughing. They are replaced suddenly by a picture of a policeman in uniform, wearing a peaked cap that betrays him as quite high-ranking.
‘We have never given up hope of finding out what happened to Bethan, and of finding and prosecuting Peggy Avery’s murderer,’ he says. He has rheumy pale eyes and reddish skin, as though he’s been outdoors in the cold for a while. ‘And we now believe that someone out there has evidence that can help us.’
‘Is it true that there is potentially new information on this case?’
The policeman nods vigorously. ‘Yes indeed. We have been given the name Alex Penycote in connection with Bethan’s disappearance, in relation to a blond-haired, blue-eyed man. We suspect it might be an alias, but we’d be extremely interested in hearing from anyone who has met this person, or heard this name in any context, possibly from somebody representing themselves as working in health or social services. And of course, if you are Alex Penycote, we’d be delighted if you could get in touch with us so we can eliminate you from the enquiry as soon as possible.’ Katie steals a sideways glance at him through her lank, overhanging hair.
He has gone ghostly white. She does not think he is even breathing.
Now on TV it’s Mrs Lewis, who teaches English, and Classics to the posh kids who sign up for it; the one who’s got the agony column in the local paper.
What’s she doing on TV?
Katie is familiar with the column. Last year one of her exes, Joshua Barrett, and his best mate had tried writing their own stupid fake problems to the email address in the paper, but Miss had never published any of them. It was like she knew.
‘Yes, my name is Margot Lewis and I edit the advice column for the Cambridge Examiner. I’m just here to say to anyone out there watching who may know something about what happened to Bethan – you don’t have to be afraid.’
Katie thinks that if anyone looks afraid it’s Mrs Lewis – her hair is slightly skew-whiff and her eyes are huge.
‘I’m waiting to hear from you again. You can come forward and you will be protected from whoever it is you think is looking for you. If you don’t want to talk to the police, then you don’t have to, there’s a victim support number you can call, which is going out with this report, or, if you prefer, you can use the anonymous Crimestoppers number. Even though it was such a long time ago, we all desperately need to hear from you again, before anyone else gets hurt.’
‘Thanks, Margot, and that number is at the bottom of the screen. Back to you, Tim, in the studio…’
Katie has forgotten to breathe, forgotten all caution, and the next thing she knows his hands are around her throat and he’s shaking her like a rag doll as she yelps in terror.
‘Is this you? Did you talk to someone? Did you? Did you?’
His eyes are tiny blue marbles of madness. His face seems to be all yellowing gritted teeth. Her hands flutter like birds, trying helplessly to push him away, push him off as she gasps for air, as everything goes grey. It’s like someone is turning the sound down and it hurts, it hurts, then finally he releases her and she falls backwards on to the couch, and they’re both wheezing with effort into the silence.
She flinches again as he reaches down and pats her arm.
‘Sorry,’ he gasps, but it is with the same distracted air as her own reply earlier. He is not thinking about her at all. ‘Sorry.’
Katie does not dare move.
He has switched off the television with the remote and is staring ahead of himself, his bottom lip moving, trembling a little. She has no idea what it means, except that…
‘12/1/1998 BETHAN AVERY’
Jesus, she realizes, they think Bethan Avery is alive. She must have written to Mrs Lewis’s column, that’s why she was on TV.
But what did that mean for Katie?
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles again.
He is on his feet and hauling her up, barely looking at her, and though faint and fighting still to fill her lungs, she gets up quickly, keen not to provoke him. He is pushing back the rug with his foot, lifting up one corner, and the trapdoor is there.
There is a second, perhaps two, as he bends down to lift it up by its heavy ring and swing it open, during which the candlestick on the right edge of the mantelpiece seems almost to wink at her over his bowed, balding head. She is perhaps ten feet from it. She could never reach it in time, particularly while he has hold of her arm.
You couldn’t reach it this time, you mean.
Then the moment is past and she is being pushed ahead of him down the narrow steps that yawn before her and thrust through the open doorway of her cell. The stone is cold beneath her feet, the darkness absolute as the door shuts behind her, and yet she cannot be sorry.
He did not touch her – and he does not. It is the first time since her arrival that he has left her alone, and something within her tentatively resets, is allowed to breathe, to think, to cautiously inhabit her own skin.
Once again, she wrestles with the dangerous illusions of hope, while she lies wrapped in her blanket in the dark. Above she can hear his footfalls moving relentlessly up and down the ceiling. He is pacing, and it goes on for a long time.
He feeds her late, much later than usual, providing her with her usual Sunday ‘treat’ of a microwaved ready meal – some kind of meat and rice; it’s impossible in the dark to judge what it’s supposed to be – a can of fizzy drink and a small sweet pastry, but he does not speak to her.
When she falls asleep at last, her head buried against her arm, she is sure she can hear something from the rooms above that may be the wind, or may be him – a kind of low but rising howl, such as might come from a dangerous wounded animal.
14
‘Ah, Margot.’
The deputy head, Jane, had bustled up to me and was giving me a strange look, as though she had caught me napping. ‘Are you all right?’
I smiled, a little confused. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just distracted. Is something wrong?’
‘There’s been a call for you,’ she said. ‘Someone for a Margot Lewis.’
I offered her an apologetic look. I was buried in calls, mostly going to the Cambridge Examiner. There had been a constant stream of them, true, though nothing promising by way of leads, Martin had told me.
That said, it was still very early days, and the reconstruction hadn’t yet been broadcast.
‘I’m sorry, Jane.’
She let out a half-sympathetic, half-annoyed sigh. ‘Well, he didn’t mention Bethan Avery. He said he had something of yours that you’d lost.’
I frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ve lost anything. My mind, maybe. Did he leave a number?’
She shook her tight curls. ‘No. He said he’d just call back. He wanted your home phone number but I wouldn’t give it to him. I told him to talk to you.’
Curiouser and curiouser.
‘Did he say when he’d call back?’
She shrugged expressively. ‘No idea. Told him not to bother in class time.’
‘I see. Thanks, Jane.’
‘Probably a reporter,’ she said. ‘Trying to find out what this “new evidence” is.’ She threw me a speculative look.
I sighed. ‘Well, he’s on a hiding to nothing. Even if I knew what it was, the police say I’m not to talk to people about the letters.’
It was a delicate hint, but she took it regardless.
‘By the way, Margot, can you do Biology with Year Ten in the lab? Rob is going home at two; he’s got a hospital appointment.’