15
By the time Jack was back at the station, it was late afternoon. Abbie’s file lay on his desk, where she’d left it earlier. Rather than stay another hour, he decided to take it with him. He’d read it when he got home, or maybe save it for tomorrow. He planned to work from home rather than face another day at the station. Beamer would be grateful. Since Louise had left, the dog had become his closest companion.
Sure enough, when he opened the back door, he was greeted by Beamer’s grin and wagging tail. Jack didn’t like leaving him so long, but he had one or two friends who would stop by and let him out for a while. Their help made the situation manageable—and when he could, Jack worked from home.
“Here, boy.” He whistled to Beamer. “Walk?”
The Labrador’s eyes lit up with hope; then he trotted off and came back carrying his leash, a trick Josh had taught him. Jack stood there a moment. There were still times, like now, when the fact that his son was dead seemed unreal. It felt like yesterday that he’d still been here. Part of him still expected to hear Josh’s voice echoing through the house or his feet thundering down the stairs. Would that ever change? He missed his son more than his wife; that much he was certain of. But he and Louise had become a habit. He missed the sound of her in the house, the trivial words they exchanged. But that was what their marriage had been reduced to—familiarity and history. It wasn’t about love.
He sighed. He was still working through it all in his head. After shutting the door behind him, he set off across the yard with Beamer, heading toward the woods, where the air would smell of damp earth and fallen leaves, and in the solitude, he knew the sadness would lift slightly. He half smiled to himself. He needed to remember that in so many ways, he was lucky.
As usual, even after an hour of walking, he hadn’t seen a soul. Occasionally, he’d hear someone through the trees—voices or maybe footsteps on dry twigs. He called his dog, waited until Beamer came crashing through the bushes toward him, then turned and headed for home.
He had to think of the pluses of living alone. The fact that he could play classical music, which used to drive Louise insane. He could eat what he wanted to, as well. Tonight, since he’d been in Spain, the fridge was empty. He’d completely forgotten to go shopping. Oh well. In the pantry were a few cans of beans and the bottle of duty-free whiskey he’d bought on the way home. He grimaced at the thought of them together, just as he heard a car pull up outside.
Seconds later there was a knock at the door. Bemused, he went to answer it, but he was less bemused when he saw who was there.
“I brought you supper.” It was Lucy, from the village shop, holding out a casserole. “Seeing as you’d been away and that.” Pretty, with smiling eyes and full lips, she spoke with a thick Cornish accent.
“Thanks.” Jack was taken aback, more so as he realized how much make-up she was wearing and as more than a hint of her perfume reached him. Oh God. He liked Lucy, with her blond hair and pink lipstick, but she wasn’t his type. He hoped he hadn’t said anything to encourage her.
“It’s chicken.” She stood there expectantly.
Was she waiting for him to invite her in? “It’s really kind of you,” he said at last. “Especially as I have to work tonight, and . . . okay, I have no food in the house, as you probably guessed!”
Giggling, Lucy winked at him. There was no subtlety about her.
“Honestly,” he said more firmly, “I’d invite you in, but I really do have to work tonight. But thank you.”
At last she got the message. “Oh, go on, you. I’ll leave you to it. But don’t forget, all work and no play made Jack a dull boy. . . .”
She giggled again as inwardly, Jack cringed. Was he now to be the recipient of casseroles from the single women in the village? He sincerely hoped not.
“I’ll drop the dish back tomorrow. Thanks, Lucy.”
As she turned and walked away, still giggling, she tripped. Had she been drinking? Sod it. He was off duty—and he wasn’t going to add Lucy to his list of problems. She didn’t have far to drive, and she was old enough to look after herself.
The casserole was good. So was the scotch. Reinvigorated, Jack fetched Abbie’s file, and as he carried on eating, he started reading.
On the morning of September 25, two runners discovered a woman’s body lying on an unofficial footpath across a field of maize on Lower Farm. Jack frowned. The second body had been found on land belonging to Lower Farm, too, according to one of the drivers. He’d check. The woman had severe injuries, mainly to her head, and was unconscious. After being airlifted to the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro, she remained unconscious for three days. When she came round, it was clear her memory was affected. On day four, she remembered her name, Evie, and that of her three-year-old daughter, Angel. Evie’s ex-partner, Nick Abraham, was traced but told the police he didn’t know he had a daughter. No one meeting Evie’s description has been reported missing, and with the exception of one woman, no one has recognized her. The name of the woman who knew Evie at school is Charlotte Harrison.
Jack stopped reading. The same Charlotte Harrison he’d met earlier, the woman who’d discovered Tamsyn’s body—the woman with attitude. He carried on.
Evie’s recollections are at best unreliable. The situation is further complicated. Since she and Mr. Abraham separated, it appears she changed her name, having formerly used her real name, Jen Russell. After leaving him, it’s believed she moved to Jessamine Cottage, a house that used to belong to her aunt, now deceased.
Jen Russell . . . The name rang some bells, but for the life of him, Jack couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before.
Forensic investigation has so far failed to find any proof that a child lives in Jessamine Cottage. There is no record of an Angel Sherman at local doctors’ offices or preschools. It’s possible that Evie/Jen was living elsewhere, but clothes and food, as well as forensic evidence found there, would appear to suggest the cottage is her home.
Clipped to the next page were a couple of photos. One was of a girl in her late teens, which, judging from the style of her fair hair, looked as though it had been taken several years ago. The other was more recent. A typical police mug shot of someone looking less than their best, but then, the woman was recovering from a brutal attack.
Something about her was familiar, though. Her hair was lank, and her eyes were lifeless. When he compared the two photos, it was hard to believe they were of the same person, until you saw the cheekbones, the shape of her mouth. Forgetting his supper, Jack scrutinized them, then leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Neither of her names meant anything to him, but he was sure he’d seen her somewhere before.
On the last page, however, he found out why. It brought back a memory he’d rather have forgotten.
When a background check was carried out on Jen Russell, it was found that she’d been involved in the disappearance of another young girl. Three-year-old Leah Danning was in Jen’s care when she went missing from her home one Saturday morning fifteen years ago.
“Jesus.” Jack remembered the case clearly. Leah’s disappearance had shocked him—Josh had been a similar age. Louise had become paranoid: she’d kept the doors and windows locked, watched everyone with suspicious eyes, terrified to let Josh out of her sight.
So Jen Russell was the woman who’d been attacked. In a twist of fate, her daughter was missing. And now Tamsyn was dead. But how was any of this connected to Leah Danning?
It was only as he lay in bed that night, his brain sifting through everything that had happened that day, that a memory flashed into his head. Then it was gone. He sat up, no longer tired. The person in the photos—Jen. He knew where he’d seen her. Right here, walking in the same woods where he walked. He must have seen her half a dozen times over the past year, always at a distance; but after the second or third time, close enough to see her face, her eyes meeting his briefly, startlingly, before she turned away from him. She always turned away. . . . But he couldn’t recall seeing a child.