Maybe the photos had been gone a while. I tried to think of the last time I’d looked through them. It had been months, if not longer, but I knew the last time I’d looked they were still there. I’d have noticed if any had gone.
I shivered, despite the heat, a feeling of foreboding washing over me.
There was one possibility I didn’t even want to think about.
I pushed it away. Told myself that it was impossible. There had to be a more logical explanation – the events of the last week had instilled an unnecessary level of fear and paranoia in me.
I set about locking up the house, making sure every window and every door was bolted and double bolted. Windows and doors I may not always have made sure to secure before, because I’d felt secure enough in my own home – in this secluded corner of the world – that I never imagined anyone would ever want to gain entry through. To try to come in.
I wasn’t one for drinking, but my nerves were sufficiently rattled to prompt me to pour a measure of Jameson Irish whiskey, from a bottle that once belonged to Paddy. It was so old I wasn’t even sure if it was still drinkable, but I sipped from it anyway. Feeling its warmth slide down my throat to my stomach, I grimaced at the taste, but if it helped me to relax that had to be a good thing.
Izzy looked up at me as if I’d lost the run of myself, drinking alcohol, pulling faces, talking to myself.
‘Don’t you judge,’ I chided her, only to be rewarded by the saddest puppy-dog stare in return. ‘I’m sorry,’ I immediately replied, bending down to pet her and ruffle her fur. ‘I’m the worst company in the world right now.’
She curled her body into mine and I lowered my aching bones down onto the floor to enjoy the warmth of her beside me – the non-judgemental nature of her very being, as if there was nothing in the world I could do to disappoint her. If only it were so easy with humans.
The sound of a car crunching on the gravel in the yard made me jump. I got to my feet slowly, my muscles straining at the effort. Then I peeped out of the window to see DI Bradley climbing out of his car. This wasn’t expected; I felt my skin prickle. That sense of foreboding again. Nothing good could come from him visiting me this late in the evening.
I opened the door just as he raised his hand to knock, managing to startle him in the process.
‘I heard your car pull up, looked out the window,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Can I come in, Elizabeth?’
‘Of course,’ I said, stepping backwards, suddenly self-conscious about the whiskey glass still in my hand. ‘I was just having one to steady my nerves. It’s been a difficult few days.’
‘Well, if I wasn’t on duty I’d be asking you to pour me a drink, too,’ he said with a tired smile.
‘The pressure must be on at this stage,’ I said, more than aware I was stating the obvious.
‘Very much so. And I’m hoping you can help me again.’
‘I’ll do whatever I can,’ I told him, leading him through to the kitchen, where he sat opposite me at the table.
‘I’m afraid there was an incident earlier today, at the home of one of Clare Taylor’s friends.’
‘One of the girls who received the flowers?’ I asked, and he nodded.
I wondered if it was the same woman who Ingrid had mentioned earlier. Whose husband the police wanted to talk to.
‘I can’t reveal all the details, but I was wondering if you’d look at a picture for me, see if it rings any bells for you at all.’
I shrugged and he took out his phone, drew his finger across the screen, scrolled and then turned the screen to face me.
‘This was left at the home of Rachel Walker today. There was an attempted break-in. Rachel has confirmed the identity of everyone in the photo and tells us she believes the girl on the right-hand side of the picture to be your daughter, Laura.’
I knew the picture immediately. It was one of those that had disappeared from my photo album. The realisation was like a kick to my stomach. My eyes were drawn directly to the image of Laura, then to the newly but angrily scored-out face of another girl. Clare. Her face obliterated by angry strokes of a red pen. No trace left at all of her smile, or the confidence she’d exuded back then.
Then I looked at the red circles drawn around the faces of the two other grinning schoolgirls. The angry words written beneath one – a girl with blonde frizzy curls and a look of defiance I’d never seen on the face of my own daughter, despite our many similarities.
I felt tears prick at my eyes. That sense of foreboding from earlier rose into something I could barely contain.
‘Is that Laura?’ DI Bradley asked.
‘It is,’ I stuttered, reaching out to touch the screen as if there were a trace of her in her image.
He paused for a moment then showed me another picture.
‘If you look here, this was written on the back of it. The names of the girls in the picture. “Julie, Rachel, Clare and me. 1990.”’
I stared at my daughter’s childish handwriting, the memory tearing at my heart.
‘It very much looks as though this photo belonged to Laura,’ he said softly. ‘Does that look like her handwriting?’
I could only nod. My girl’s handwriting. I didn’t realise just how much I missed something as silly as handwriting until I saw it in front of me. My hand flew to my mouth as if to try to contain the grief that wanted to spill out.
‘I think from this point in the investigation we reasonably have to assume that whoever carried out the attack on Clare Taylor, and whoever’s been leaving messages for you, and for those of the friends and family of Clare Taylor, is connected to your daughter and has been able to access her personal belongings. The big question, of course, is who?’
I couldn’t speak. I just kept looking at the picture of my daughter. So alive. So full of hope. I thought of the missing space in the photo album.
DI Bradley continued. ‘Elizabeth, I know this is horrible and it’s bringing up all sorts of memories from a very difficult time. But given what’s happened, we’ll be looking into Laura’s file. We have to question whether the same person who targeted Clare, who’s now targeting her friends, could also have targeted Laura two years ago.
‘Perhaps she felt threatened by that person. We believe the man responsible to be a very manipulative and narcissistic creature. He’s clearly capable of carrying out acts of extreme violence. Did she ever mention feeling threatened by anyone? Scared of anyone? Any information at all that you can give us about the people in her life could break this case.’
The room about me began to sway. The edges became fuzzy. I wasn’t sure if I was whispering, talking or shouting.
‘But Laura took her own life. She left a note. Nothing about her death, nothing, bears any resemblance to what happened to Clare.’
‘And it could be that investigation will find just that,’ he said. ‘But we can’t ignore what’s happened and we want to make you fully aware of what’s going on.’
I felt the whiskey that hadn’t properly settled in my stomach rise. Swallowing it back, I looked at DI Bradley, tried to focus on him and his voice. Tried to think about what he was telling me. What it could mean.
Had someone driven my daughter to her death?
I thought of the picture he’d shown me. What he’d said: ‘Manipulative and narcissistic’, and ‘capable of carrying out acts of extreme violence’. The room swam around me and DI Bradley’s voice faded further into the distance.
I was aware of a strange tingling feeling at the back of my neck, the sudden arrival of a sheen of cold sweat on my brow. I tried to focus – on the sights and sounds in front of me, on the familiar smell of home, on the feeling of Izzy at my feet.
A searing pain seemed to hit me like a lightning bolt, right on the top of my head. I wanted to scream but I was already fading. I tried to stop myself from falling, sideways, the darkness growing as I fell.
I was already unconscious by the time my head hit the stone floor with a sickening thud.