Five days earlier
The large, three-storey house I grew up in sits at the end of one of Westhaven’s grand Georgian crescents, a monolith of dirty grey sandstone with ivy clambering over the lower reaches of the gable end. This morning the sash windows on the ground floor are shuttered, and the curtains in each of the rooms on the second and third floors are closed, the windowpanes holding only milky reflections of the overcast sky. The whole building gives the impression of sitting back, with its arms folded and its eyes closed to the world, as if it knows all my secrets and disapproves. Which is impossible, because it’s just a house.
Then again, it’s my dad’s house.
I unfasten Freya from her car seat, and while she hops down onto the gravel drive and races to the front door shouting at the top of her lungs – ‘Grandpa! We’re here, we’re here!’ – I go round to the back of the car to get our things. As I lift out the bags, I hear the front door open, followed by a gasp of delight from Dad, and when I close the boot, I see he’s scooped Freya up onto his hip and the two of them are gazing at each other with adoring grins on their faces. It’s such an unrestrained display of affection I can’t help but feel a flicker of jealousy.
Dad sets Freya down with a groan of effort. ‘Oof! You’ve got so big.’
‘Not that big,’ says Freya. ‘I’m only one hundred centimetres tall.’
As one of the smallest children in her class, Freya is keenly aware of her height. She has Martin or I check how much she’s grown on the first of every month, the date-stamped pencil marks etched into her bedroom doorframe climbing ever-so-slowly upwards.
‘I bet you’ll be taller than me in no time,’ Dad tells Freya, and he might be right about that.
In my memories, Dad is tall and strong, with big, callused hands, and fingertips permanently stained with varnish, as if a small part of him were turning into the furniture he spends his days building in his workshop. But today he looks small and fragile; hunched over and shrunken with age, his scalp visible through his thinning hair. He grips the doorframe with a blue-veined hand to steady himself as he drops to one knee and presses a palm against Freya’s tummy.
‘And I bet you must be very hungry after such a long journey,’ he says.
Freya nods. ‘I’m starving.’
‘You’ve just eaten, not fifteen minutes ago,’ I call out.
Dad half-whispers into Freya’s ear, ‘If you go through to the kitchen, there might be some cakes on the counter. I’m sure your mum won’t mind if you have one.’
Freya looks to me for permission, wide-eyed at the prospect. ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Just one, mind.’ She races off into the house to find the kitchen as I reach the door, a suitcase in one hand and bags hanging from each shoulder.
‘Cake at this hour?’ I say.
Dad smiles as he gets to his feet, groaning with the effort. ‘I’m her grandpa. I’m supposed to spoil her, it’s in the job description.’ Then he gives me a look that says, Besides, what do you expect? and a rush of guilt dries my mouth.
It’s two years since I’ve been back, and in staying away from Westhaven, I’ve been keeping Dad away from his only grandchild, reducing their relationship to weekly Skype calls. The one London trip he did make, for Freya’s fifth birthday last year, left him exhausted and overwhelmed, flustered by the tubes and the crowds, and seeing him that way made me snappy and irritable, as if it were his fault for struggling, rather than mine for choosing not to visit him instead.
The words of a half-apology I’ll probably never deliver form in my mind, Sorry, Dad. I just couldn’t face it. This place, these people. That look you always give me …
‘We’ve just been so busy,’ I say, instead. ‘You know how it is. But we’re here now, aren’t we?’
‘Indeed,’ says Dad, warmly. ‘I suppose you’d better come in then.’
Inside, I’m immediately hit with familiar sights and smells from my childhood. The high shelf in the hallway of coloured-glass bird ornaments Mum used to collect, the framed family photos on the walls, the collection of wellington boots under the stairs – a large yellow pair of Mum’s slumped sadly in the corner, covered in cobwebs. I breathe in the house’s distinctive odour, a signature combination of pipe smoke, old books, and the damp in the cellar, and it feels both like I’ve been away forever, and was here only yesterday.
‘I’ll make up the spare room for you,’ says Dad. ‘And I thought it would be nice if Freya had your old room.’
I shake my head as I set down the bags at the foot of the stairs. ‘We’ll both sleep in my room.’ Dad raises an eyebrow and I add, ‘Freya’s asthma is playing up. She had an episode in the car.’
‘Oh dear.’ He looks worried. ‘She’s OK now though?’
‘She’s fine, but it gets worse at night. I want to keep an eye on her.’
Hopefully this morning was a one-off, but if Freya is having an asthma flare up, night-time is when it will be at its worst, when that malevolent spirit creeps up on her and has her waking up in a panic, clutching at her chest as her breathing crackles and whistles. I don’t want her to be alone if that happens.
After cake, Dad gives Freya a tour of the house – except for Mum’s old office, which he waltzes past without a word – and we carry the bags up to my childhood bedroom, still brimming with the remnants of my younger self. I look at the single bed, the old textbooks and folders of college work on the shelves, the smudges of Blu Tack on the walls from where posters of my favourite bands used to hang, and I feel young and old at the same time.
‘This is where Mummy used to sleep when she was a little girl,’ I tell Freya.
She sniffs, pulls a face. ‘It smells funny.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ I say, but I open a window anyway to air out the room.
Once we’re unpacked, Dad fishes out a stack of board games in battered boxes from the old dresser in the spare room, and we sit around the kitchen table, trying to find one we can all play that isn’t missing essential pieces.
‘You never did look after your things,’ he complains.
Mousetrap is a no go, of course – was there ever a time when there weren’t pieces missing from that one? The same goes for Buckaroo. In the end we crib a pair of dice from Ludo to play Snakes and Ladders, Freya doing a little victory dance around the kitchen when she wins and Dad pretending to be annoyed at losing. He seems younger already, as if being around Freya for half an hour has had a restorative effect on him, and perhaps it has.
After a lunch of sandwiches and more cake, we move through to the living room and lounge on the sofas and, once we’re settled, I discreetly check my emails on my phone, and see the reply I was hoping for.
He’ll meet with me, he says. But I’ll need to be quick.
I ask Dad if he can watch Freya for a few hours. ‘There’s someone I’d like to catch up with in town, if it’s OK with you.’
‘Do I mind spending time with my only granddaughter?’ Dad reaches over and tickles Freya’s pink-socked feet, and Freya dissolves into giggles. ‘I think we’ll manage, won’t we?’
‘Her inhalers are … Dad, are you listening? It’s important.’
Dad stops tickling Freya and looks up. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘Her inhalers are on the bedside table, up in my room. She shouldn’t need them, but if she does, she knows how to take them by herself. She can have two puffs of the blue one and no more. If her breathing doesn’t improve after a few minutes, call me and I’ll come straight back, OK? Freya, be good for Grandpa.’
‘I’m always good,’ Freya says; apparently her new catchphrase.
I head for the front door, take my coat down off the hook, and am surprised to find that Dad has followed me out into the hall and is standing close by with a stern look of disapproval on his face. It’s a look I remember well from when I was a teenager, when he caught me smoking out of the bathroom window when I was fourteen, or the morning he caught Martin sneaking downstairs after he’d stayed the night in my room without permission.
Dad leans in. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea, going through all this again?’ His voice is laced with concern.
‘Dad, it’s not like that—’ I begin, but he isn’t listening.
‘Jessica, you turn up out of the blue after two years, and I’m supposed to believe you’re here for a half-term holiday? Did you know, some more kids got lost in the woods the other week, trying to find that well? They’d flown in from God knows where. One of them even had on a T-shirt with Connor’s face printed on it.’
Martin often reminds me that I can’t be held responsible for the actions of each and every Born Killer fan, but who else is to blame for them coming to Westhaven? Most are harmless enough, content to visit some of the sights and landmarks from the show, take selfies in front of the town hall and perhaps stroll up to the Old Mill Tearooms. But others have different motives. They walk into Cooper’s Wood convinced they’ll find some missing clue or piece of evidence that might solve Amy’s murder once and for all. They come to Westhaven to do what I could not: to find Amy’s killer, and finish her story.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but Dad waves me away.
‘Don’t apologise to me, love. It’s just that … If your mother was here …’ He trails off with a shake of his head and I feel my throat tighten at the mention of Mum.
I’m certain he thinks that if she were still alive, I wouldn’t have made Born Killer. That it is in some way a continuation of the disruptive behaviour I engaged in as a teenager when I first found out she was ill. An adolescent cry for attention, streamed into the homes of millions of people around the world.
Sometimes I think he might be right.
Dad raises a bony hand. ‘All I’m saying is, and I’m sure your mum would have agreed with me, I think it might be best if you sit this one out.’
I don’t blame him for not understanding, and for thinking I have a choice.
‘You needn’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not here to make another documentary. I haven’t even got my equipment with me.’
He gives me one of his looks, with one eyebrow raised, and I hear his voice in the back of my mind, an echo from years passed, Don’t lie to me, young lady.
I suppose he’s used to the old me, who never went anywhere without her camera. But in the last twelve months, the only filming I’ve done has been on my phone; little videos of Freya, playing in the park, or opening her presents on Christmas morning.
‘So, you being here has nothing to do with this young boy who’s been murdered?’ he says.
‘I didn’t say that,’ I tell him, because there’s no point in denying it.
He shakes his head. ‘Thought as much. If all you wanted was someone to babysit while you go poking your nose in where it isn’t wanted, I wish you’d have just come out and said so.’ Then he turns away and walks back down the hall.
‘Dad …’ I call after him, but he’s already closing the living room door behind him, and a moment later I hear the soft murmur of his voice through the walls, followed by laughter from Freya as he switches back into cheerful Grandpa mode.
I know I should stay and try to smooth things over, but I can’t afford to be late.
I’m not here to make another documentary. I’m here because this is my chance to make things right; to help find Evan’s killer, and to finish Amy’s story.
I put my coat on and head for the door.