56
He’d taken the number 76 bus out to Otterbourne, waiting almost until the end of the line before turning on Ruby’s phone and sending the customary tweets and texts. Normally this little charade amused him, but today it made him anxious. Had he tweeted from Pippa’s phone after the police had discovered her body? If so, had they made this connection?
So many questions he couldn’t possibly answer and the not knowing was torturing him. Exhausted by the day’s events, he found no satisfaction in the dance of death today – he just wanted to be home. One stop before the terminus, he got off and crossed the road to take the number 38 back into town.
Stepping inside the old house, he collapsed on to the sofa, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The whole place was in a state of chaos – half-finished bits of DIY, creeping patches of damp and empty pizza boxes everywhere, which the rats visited nightly. Coming home had failed to raise his spirits in the way he’d hoped and he felt curiously despondent. What if Summer was as recalcitrant and hostile as she’d been earlier? He wasn’t sure he could face another round of that. Putting off the moment of their reunion, he grabbed a bin bag from the kitchen and started shovelling rubbish into it, determined to get a grip on a house that was falling down around his ears.
Soon he was dusty, thirsty and even more exhausted than before. His body and his mind were urging him to go to bed, to get some rest. But still he resisted. She was down there, underneath these floorboards, waiting for him. Try as he might he couldn’t resist her pull. She was his drug. The one thing he couldn’t do without.
He paused and looked at himself in the mirror. Where once he had been young and handsome, now he appeared careworn and tired. No wonder she struggled to accept him. But still, was there any need to be so cruel? If she carried on like this, he would have to impose sanctions. He would take away her inhaler. If she needed to be broken, then so be it…
He found he was already halfway to her cell, his feet guiding him there on auto-pilot. It was as if he were in a dream – unable to control his actions or events. Pulling himself back to reality, he slipped the wicket hatch open. For once, she wasn’t lying on the bed, despondent. It was hard to make out details in the gloom, but she seemed to be sitting up, waiting for something.
Sliding the wicket hatch shut, he switched on the main lights and slipped inside. To his surprise, there was Summer, just like he always pictured her, sitting on the bed in her skirt, earrings and top, a pretty smile spread across her face.
This is a dream, he thought to himself. But finally it’s a good one.
57
She hated lying, but sometimes you had no choice. At least that’s what DC Sanderson told herself as she dialled Sinead Murphy’s number. Having already lied to her team about what she was up to, she was now about to lie to an unsuspecting member of the public.
‘It’s about your daughter Roisin.’
The voice on the other end of the line – which moments earlier had been warm and welcoming – suddenly went quiet.
‘There’s no need to be alarmed. This is just a routine follow-up call,’ Sanderson continued, keen to put Roisin’s mother at ease. ‘Our records show you reported your daughter missing nearly three years ago. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, for all the good it did me.’
‘I take it you’ve not seen her since you made the report?’
‘No’ was the brief and sober response.
Sanderson ran through the particulars on the forms – occupation, family, physical descriptions, past behaviour – before asking the only question that mattered.
‘Has there been any contact between you and Roisin since she went missing? Anything at all?’
There was a long pause, then:
‘I suppose you could call it contact.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She sends the odd text or tweet. But she never replies when I text back.’
‘Have you tried calling her on that number?’
‘What do you think?’ was the withering response.
‘And?’
‘Always straight to voicemail.’
‘Can you remember the last time she tweeted?’
‘Why do you want to know? Why are you asking me all these questions?’
Sanderson paused – how to respond?
‘We’re just trying to make some progress on Roisin’s case. Frankly, too little has been done so far and her communications are the best hope we have of finding out where she is.’
Another long silence, then:
‘She tweeted earlier today actually.’
‘Saying?’
‘Nothing of interest. Just a gripe about having a bad day.’
‘Can you remember the exact time?’
‘Hold on,’ Sinead replied. Sanderson could hear her rummaging through her bag for her phone. ‘Come on, come on,’ Sanderson thought to herself, casting a nervous eye over the sheet of timings that lay on the table in front of her.
‘Here we are,’ Sinead responded. ‘She tweeted at… 6.14 p.m. today.’
‘And the one before that?’
‘Yesterday. Just after ten a.m.’
Sanderson took Sinead back through a few more of Roisin’s tweets, then ended the call, promising that she would be back in touch shortly. Sanderson had a nasty feeling that she would honour that promise and when she did, it would be with the bleakest of news. The timings of Roisin’s last five tweets matched exactly with the timing of Ruby Sprackling’s latest communications.
Helen had been right all along.
58
‘So how was your day?’
The words sounded so alien, but she forced them out, all the while maintaining her broad smile.
‘It was fine, thanks.’
‘Were you working? Do you work?’
‘You know I work, Summer.’
His knowing reply rattled her, but she was not going to be weak. Not today.
‘What do you do?’
He looked at her and smiled.
‘You look pretty tonight,’ he eventually said.
‘Thank you. I… I wanted to make an effort.’
‘It shows.’
Ruby hesitated, looked at her lap, then lifting her gaze to his, carried on:
‘I also wanted to say sorry. For being unkind. I didn’t mean it.’
He was watching her, as if unsure whether to believe her or not.
‘I want us to be friends.’
He looked at her, but still said nothing. Not a smile, not a rebuke, nothing.
‘I get lonely down here, so if we could spend more time together, then…’
‘That’s all I want, Summer. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
The fervency in his voice took her by surprise. She tried to speak but fear was creeping up on her again now, robbing her of the power of speech.
‘It’s a clean slate for both of us, then,’ he went on. ‘So why don’t we spend the evening together? I’ll cook for us.’
He looked straight at her. He had a fire in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before.
‘It’ll be just like old times.’
59
Helen had no idea what she was doing here. But here she was – sitting in the Great Southern’s rooftop restaurant, opposite Daniel Briers.
‘I feel a bit of a fraud,’ Daniel Briers was saying, as he topped up her coffee. ‘I don’t have anything new to tell you and I’m sure you’d have been in touch if there’d been any developments. I guess I just wanted the company of someone who knew what I was going through.’
‘It’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything important,’ she lied.
‘Have I dragged you away from your family?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Helen replied, artfully avoiding the question.
‘You get a bit stir crazy sitting in this room all day. I’ve tried to get out, but I don’t know my way around and… and truth be told I don’t really want to get to know this place. I feel happier here.’