“Why didn’t you tell the police all this when she was reported missing?” asked Grace.
“Because I daren’t. I thought I’d get done for abduction. I didn’t want to go back to prison and lose Carol completely. I just thought she’d had a row at the home because she had got back late and had done a runner. It wasn’t until a few days later when she didn’t get in touch that I rung Barry. He covered up for me and did some enquiries without his bosses knowing. I started to pester them. I suppose I was a pain at times, but which mother wouldn’t be if their daughter went missing. Finally they agreed for me to make an appeal through the media. The press gave me such a hard time. I reacted badly to their questioning even though I’d been a journalist myself. I came over hard on the telly. They’d edited out much of my emotions and so the public slated me. I couldn’t win. For weeks if I cried I was accused of being over dramatic and if I didn’t I was a hard-faced bitch. I suppose my past caught up with me over those awful first few months of her going missing.”
She put down her cup in order to wipe a tear, which had fallen down her cheek. “Call it a mother’s instinct but I just knew something had happened to her. Carol would have contacted me no matter where she was. When I saw on TV last night that a girl’s body had been found at the old Manvers site I just knew it was her, because you see I had walked her to the bus stop only a few hundred yards from there.” She paused momentarily “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure go ahead,” replied Grace.
“Why didn’t you show the cardigan she had on? I would have definitely known it was her then.”
“Cardigan?” enquired Grace, a puzzled frown on her face.
“Yes a blue and grey striped one, with flowers embroidered on it. I loaned it her because it was so cold that night.”
The description of that garment suddenly struck a chord in Hunter’s memory and he spluttered loudly as the tea he was drinking momentarily met a sharp intake of breath.
CHAPTER NINE
DAY SEVENTEEN: 22nd July 2008.
Linda Morris climbed the stairs to Rebecca’s room, carefully draping the freshly ironed T-shirt over her arm. She had found it earlier that morning, still clinging to the insides of the washing machine. She paused for a second at the bedroom door, took in a deep breath, and turned the handle slowly, edging it open like she used to, in case Rebecca was dozing. It entered her head that she would never be able to disturb her daughter ever again. She felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach and she fought back the urge to cry.
The room was exactly as it had been the day Rebecca had left for school. Well that was with the exception that she had to make some minor adjustments herself, after those detectives hadn’t replaced everything as exactly as it had been. She folded the T-shirt and put it in its rightful place, in the chest of drawers, beside the wardrobe. She opened up the other drawers and checked Rebecca’s socks and underwear. She closed them slowly and then moved to the jewellery box on top of the unit, placing it back into the position where she thought it should have been.
She could hear the sound of children outside, their voices bubbling with excitement and she sidled towards the window. She spotted her husband below on bended knees, doing something with the borders. He’d hardly spoken since the news had been broken to them. He even averted his eyes when she had tried to catch his vacant stare. It just seemed as though the life had been sucked out of him. She knew what he was going through. She felt as though her own life had been destroyed since she had lost Rebecca. She had lain awake night after night, struggling to come to terms with this needless act.
She turned her gaze back into the room, trying to take in every nook and cranny; every aspect of Rebecca’s life. She spotted her own dog-eared Enid Blyton Famous Five books on the small bookshelf, beside Rebecca’s CDs and DVDs. Mystery stories, which despite being dated, had delighted Rebecca night after night, when they had read together over the years. White flashes hit the back of her eyes and she realised just how drained she had become. An unbearable weight was still pushing down on her shoulders. She flopped onto the bed, falling across the duvet. Reaching across to the bedside cabinet she picked up the framed school photograph of Rebecca and hugged it to her chest. Resting her head on the goose-feather pillow, she breathed in all the smells of Rebecca, curled up in the foetal position, and sobbed uncontrollably.
* * * * *
He stood at the bottom of the stairs in silence, holding his breath, gripping the banister, whilst trying to decipher and make some sense of the moaning which was coming from upstairs. He checked each footfall as he carefully mounted the stairs in his stocking feet. His parent’s bedroom door was ajar, and with his senses heightened, he honed onto the sweaty pungent smell, which was wafting towards him through the gap. It was a smell new to him. Silently, pushing the door open further, he began to edge in to see what was happening. There was the almighty crash behind him, followed by shouting, and the form of his mother grabbing at the sheets, attempting to cover up her nakedness, whilst a man, whom he recognised as Mr Carson from across the road, scrambled for his clothing. In a flash his father was rushing past, bundling him against the jamb, causing him to smack his head against the woodwork. He witnessed his father’s lean and powerful arms delivering blow after blow to Mr Carson, but he couldn’t make sense of why.
Within seconds his dad was snatching off the broad leather belt that he always wore to hold up his work trousers, wrapping the buckle of it into his palm. He watched his father unleash it with such ferociousness across his mother’s back, before winding it around her neck. He could see her eyes bulging, fingers trying to pull it away from her flesh, mouth gaping, trying to force out words. Instinctively, he found himself crouching cat-like, before launching at his father, pulling at his hair and ears, and clawing at his face. He couldn’t understand why his father’s once embracing arms turned against him. He was slung against the wall. The pain was intense, and as the blood trickled down his face, the last thing he could remember was the screams of his mother tearing into his eardrums.
He awoke in a sweat, shooting bolt upright. He was wringing wet and there was a damp patch on his bedding around him. How many times had that dream come back to haunt him. So many nights he had lain awake. Scared to go to sleep because he had to re-live the nightmares of his past.
He leaned back against the wooden headboard, breathing deeply, rubbing the tension out of his neck and shoulders. Then, as always, he closed his eyes and conjured up the images of his childhood.
For the first ten years of his life he didn’t have a care in the world. He had a loving, doting mother, and a proud father, who shared his passion for photography. In fact he had built him a dark room, and spent many happy hours helping him to develop his photographs. His father had worked at the local pit, and he could recall the many occasions walking down his street with his mother to meet his dad strolling over the pit pony fields, breaking into a jog for his father to sweep him off his feet and throw him over his shoulders for a ‘piggy-back’ home.
Then she had spoilt it all.
His mother had screwed that fat and ugly Jimmy Carson, and father had left home.
He remembered how his once so-called mates called his mother a whore, and he had quickly lashed out, venting his anger so deeply on one boy that DC Newstead had come round and told his mother to sort him out, or he’d do it for her.