No, no. I can’t call anyone. I don’t want to get him into trouble if he was doing nothing. Though if he’s with Jason, then I doubt they’re doing nothing.
The world seems to have gone quiet. No voices on the street, or jazz music from next door. I’m sure I can hear the ticking of the grandmother clock in the dining room. These four walls feel like they’re closing in, laughing at me. It was better when I knew where he was, that he was safe. It’s a terrible thing to think, but I’ve felt so unsettled these past six days – even compared to the days and nights the house was targeted. The police were no use then either.
I go to the kitchen and splash my face with cold water.
When that first lit newspaper came through the door, I was fast asleep on the sofa when the smoke alarm went. I dialled 999 after putting it out myself with the water from the kettle. I know they say not to do that, that you have to get out and stay out, but it was only small. It was more of a smoulder than a fire. Whoever put it through my letterbox obviously hadn’t put enough petrol or whatever they used on it. It would’ve done more damage had I left it. ‘Get a landline put in upstairs,’ the fireman said, five minutes after I called. ‘It’s lucky you’ve wooden floors and no curtain behind the door… curtains plus a carpet would’ve gone up like that.’ He’d made a whooshing sound while sweeping his arm through the air.
I splash my face with water again.
Jason. I need to contact Jason.
But that would mean asking Denise for his phone number.
I grasp the edges of the kitchen counter and look to the calendar. I’ve underlined the nineteenth of February. I don’t know why I always do that – it’s not as if I’d forget. Thirty-nine years this year since my mother died. Where does it go?
Last Monday is circled in blue ink and I even wrote a little exclamation mark and a smiley face. It’s been seven days today since Craig was released. What planet was I on then when I drew that – what did I think it would be like? I shouldn’t have lied to Adam last night on the phone. It can’t be like it was back then. If he’s in trouble then they’ll have got to him by now, but he’s out there somewhere and he might be hurt.
I walk back into the hallway and open my address book. I kept that reporter’s card; I knew I had. I could tell him all about my son and how it couldn’t possibly have been Craig and now he’s in trouble. I’ll let him know that I’m still searching for a man called Pete Lawton who was with Craig when Lucy was murdered. I keep checking, but there’s been no reply from the one who opened my message on Facebook. It’s like I’m chasing a ghost, someone who doesn’t exist.
I hold the card as I walk into the living room. I grab the remote and switch the television on to have a comforting sound in the background. I don’t want to hear my voice echoing in this house.
The local news is on. Before I press the button to change the channel a familiar face is staring back at me. The photograph fills the screen. A pretty, young girl in a school uniform: Leanne.
17
Following his talk with Rebecca Savage this morning, Luke is now convinced that Erica Wright has been covering up for her son regarding Jenna Threlfall’s murder. But why would the police believe an alibi from a relative if it weren’t true? Perhaps it’s because the murders seemed to differ.
Several aspects of the police investigation have remained under embargo: pieces of evidence that couldn’t be made public but were leaked to a member of his office.
There were key areas in which Lucy and Jenna’s cases were different. Lucy was found hidden, crudely and amateurishly, in woodland. There was a rudimentary covering of leaves, earth and sticks that were perhaps pawed away by the dog that found her. Her clothes were on her person and there was nothing missing from the body. Jenna, on the other hand, was found in a place one couldn’t miss – she’d obviously been moved post-mortem and her skin had been crudely wiped with bleach, presumably to rid the body of foreign DNA. While Luke believed that the treatment of Jenna’s body could be perceived as different, it still seemed naive to use household bleach.
Luke types the names of Jenna’s parents, Sandra and Philip Threlfall, into Google. There are hardly any results and those he finds are mentions in parish newsletters or results of cricket matches. Nothing of importance. He doubts his own parents would appear in any Google searches either.
He reads through the old interviews. Jenna Threlfall had a sister, Olivia, who was thirteen years old at the time – not that they’d been able to print any details about her then.
He types Olivia Threlfall into Facebook. There’s one entry in Shropshire but with a different surname. She must have her maiden name listed as an alternative. Pictures of her and her children are there for all to see. Why do people do that? Luke had read somewhere that social scientists predicted that the next generation will be horrified at the information about themselves people put online today – that everything will reverse, and people will value privacy online.
Olivia’s workplace is listed as DH Solutions Limited. Luke clicks on the link, sighing with exasperation. He found her in minutes. Before he dials, he quickly looks up her company’s client list, jotting down a few names. He’s pretty sure that if he were to give his true reason for phoning, Olivia wouldn’t take his call.
It rings twice.
‘DH Solutions. Good afternoon, Amy speaking. How may I help you?’
‘Hello. Could you put me through to Olivia Threlfall, please?’
‘Who can I say is calling?’
‘Marc from GlobeForce.’
Silence.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re… I mean… You’re calling on behalf of Marc, right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
She gives a nervous laugh. ‘I thought it was some sick joke. We’ve just started our Christmas party, you see… well, I’ve started a few minutes early… I thought I was hearing things.’
‘Christmas?’
‘Yeah. We can’t have our party when normal people have it… but at least it’s all free.’ She clears her throat. ‘Putting you through now.’
Luke listens to two minutes of ‘Black Velvet’ – she almost catches him singing along.
‘Olivia Threlfall.’
‘Hello, Olivia. My name is Luke Simmons.’
‘Are you a relative of Marc’s?’
‘No.’
She sighs. ‘Thank God. Reception mumbled something about hearing the voice of a dead person. I’d have hated it if it were a relative and we’d totally offended them.’
Shit.
‘You’re safe. I’m Luke from the Chronicle in Preston.’
‘Oh. Really.’
‘I don’t think the receptionist was listening properly – she seemed preoccupied.’
God, he hopes he doesn’t get Amy fired.
‘I suppose it’s that time of year… I mean for us. Anyway… sorry. I’m not with it myself.’
‘Not a problem,’ he says.
‘This is about Jenna, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I should’ve guessed – what with Amy thinking she’d spoken to the dead. I’m not always this ditzy, you know.’
‘It’s OK,’ says Luke, partially glad he’s caught her in a distracted mood.
He’d seen a picture of her when she was thirteen, though she’d looked even younger than that.
‘You’ve got one of those voices, I guess,’ she says.
Luke guesses that Amy isn’t the only one to start the party early. He clicks on the calendar on the bottom right of his screen. Yep – still Monday, still February. Though he does spot a random bauble tucked behind his monitor. Great – that’ll have to stay there all year now, bloody superstitions.