‘Think I’ll pass. If you’ll excuse me…’
And he headed off to find others to molest. The conversation resumed, DC Sanderson asking everyone where they were spending Christmas. Helen took this as her cue to leave.
She was surprised to find she’d been in the pub for well over an hour. It had actually been quite refreshing – a moment for her brain to shut down – but now as she walked back to the station through the cold night air, her mind was once more full of the case. She wanted to follow up the benzodiazepine link. Where was the killer getting her supply? Could that be a route to her?
Helen returned to the empty incident room and once more continued her hunt for the killer who would not be caught.
31
Her fury was reaching fever pitch and she wanted to scream until her lungs burst. The last few days had been terrifying and confusing for Anna, but her mother’s refusal to talk to her now was making everything a million times worse.
When Ella had put the bag on her head, Anna’s first thought was that she would suffocate – she was unable to move her head at all and if her airways were covered then she would die a slow, inexorable death. But luckily the bag was loose-fitting and made of some kind of natural fibre, so she could breathe. Reprieved, she’d listened, straining to hear what was happening. Were they being robbed? Was her mother being murdered? But there was nothing, no sound at all apart from the front door being closed and the sound of the grille going on. Was it Ella going? Her mother going? Please, God, don’t leave me here alone like this, Anna prayed. But no one had answered her prayers and so she’d sat there, a little girl all alone, swathed in an awful darkness.
She sat like that for hours, then suddenly a blinding light as the bag was pulled off her head. She closed her eyes in pain, then slowly opened them, struggling to acclimatize to her freedom. Whilst she’d been sitting there she’d been imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios – the flat turned over, her mother murdered – but as she looked around now, everything seemed relatively… normal. Nothing had been taken and it was once more just her and her mother in the flat. At first Anna was relieved, waiting for Marie to explain that the mad woman had stolen some stuff and gone and that they were ok again. But her mother said nothing. Anna grunted and gasped for attention, whilst her eyes swivelled in their sockets, desperately trying to make eye contact. But Marie wouldn’t look at her. Why not? What had happened to make her too ashamed to look at her own daughter?
Anna started to cry once more. She was only fourteen – she didn’t know what this was all about. Yet her mother didn’t look up or try and comfort her. Instead she left the room. It was three, maybe four days since Ella had arrived and in that time her mother hadn’t said one meaningful thing to her. She’d read to her, taken her to the toilet, urged her to sleep but she hadn’t talked to her. Anna had never felt so unloved. And so utterly in the dark. She had always been a burden, Anna knew that, and had always loved her mother unreservedly for the patience, love and tenderness she showed her. But she hated her now. Hated her with all her heart for the cruelty she was inflicting on her.
She had gone beyond starving. Her stomach cramped constantly, she was light-headed, her mouth was so dry she could taste blood in it. But her mother refused to give her any food. Why? And why wasn’t she feeding herself? What the hell was going on!
A sound from the hall. A terrible battering and screaming. Fists pounding, her mother wailing. Suddenly Marie was back in the room. She marched straight past Anna, looking crazed and ragged.
She was opening the window. Because they were in a tower block, the windows were hinged in the middle and only opened a bit so you couldn’t throw yourself out – a smart move given the desperation of the inhabitants. But you could get a bit of a breeze on your face if that was what you wanted.
Now Marie was shouting, begging for help. Yelling for someone – anyone – to come and rescue them. And it was then that Anna knew. They were prisoners. That’s what her mother wasn’t telling her. Ella had locked them in, imprisoned them. They were trapped.
This was why her mother was shouting at the night. Hoping against hope that someone would pass by and hear her. That someone would care. But Anna knew from experience not to count on the kindness of strangers. As her mother slumped to the floor defeated, Marie finally realized that they were entombed in their own home.
32
Should they cancel Christmas? It had been Sarah’s first question to Peter once she’d got him home from hospital. She didn’t ask about his health – she could see he was making slow but steady progress – nor did she want to talk about what had happened. Nobody wanted to talk about that. But she did want to know what to do about Christmas. Would Peter like to have it at theirs as normal, with the usual assortment of cousins and parents? A kind of life-goes-on, we’re-glad-you’re-alive Christmas. Or did they want to acknowledge that life had suddenly become very dark and that there was no cause for celebration?
In the end, they’d decided to carry on as normal. Every fibre of Peter’s being wanted to avoid friends and relatives. He couldn’t stand their solicitous cooing and the unasked questions that filled their heads. But the thought of being alone with Sarah at Christmas was even more terrifying. Every second he was left alone was a second in which dark thoughts and darker memories could start to proliferate. He must keep his mind occupied, focus on the good things, even if it was all so much hypocrisy, tedium and anxiety.
At first, he’d been tempted to hate his wife. She was clearly at sea, unsure how to handle her killer husband. She couldn’t compute what had happened, so fluttered around doing a million small things to show that she cared – all of which were entirely pointless. And yet as the days passed, Peter realized that he loved her for all her small kindnesses and because she clearly didn’t blame him for what had happened. He managed a smile when he realized she had banned crackers this year. She had no clear idea what had happened in that hellhole, but she felt instinctively that her husband would not like loud bangs this year. She was right and for that – and many other things – Peter was grateful.
The gang turned up as usual and my God they were jolly. They skipped past the uniformed policemen guarding the front door as if they weren’t there, positively oozing Christmas cheer in a way that was both manic and forced. Lots of booze was given and received as if everyone had collectively decided they needed a stiff drink. The presents just kept on coming as if a moment’s pause in proceedings might prove fatal. The piles of unwrapped gifts grew until they threatened to take over the room.
Suddenly Peter felt claustrophobic. He got up abruptly and slipped from the room. Heading into the kitchen he tried to unlock the back door, but was all fingers and thumbs. Cursing, he eventually managed it and then strode out into the freezing garden. The cool air soothed him and he decided to have a cigarette. Since returning from hospital he’d resumed the habit he’d kicked several years ago and of course no one had dared comment. A small victory.
Suddenly Ash was beside him. His eldest nephew.
‘Needed a break. Don’t suppose I could bum one of those off you, could I?’ he said, gesturing towards Peter’s cigarettes.
‘Sure thing, Ash. Knock yourself out,’ Peter replied, handing Ash the packet and his lighter.
Peter watched him clumsily lighting his cigarette. Ash wasn’t much of a smoker and he was an even worse actor. Peter knew immediately that Ash had been sent out here to keep an eye on him. At the hospital, the doctors had spent over an hour discussing Peter’s mental state with Sarah, filling her already over-anxious mind with a host of nightmare scenarios. Which meant that Peter was pretty much on suicide watch, though no one would put it like that. Silly really – he didn’t have the energy for anything like that at the moment, though God knows it had crossed his mind enough times. Ash chattered on and Peter grunted and smiled, but he might as well have been talking Mandarin. Peter didn’t give a toss what he was saying.