17
Alight shone in his face, and for a split second, he confronted his own mortality.
“Jack? What the hell are you doing out here?”
Through his shock, he recognized PC Miller’s voice. “Dan?” Jack was overwhelmed with relief. “What are you doing here?”
“I left my coat in the Sherman house earlier. I saw your car, and then on the way back, I saw some lights. What was going on?”
“I’ve no idea. I saw the lights, too. As I started walking toward them, I heard an animal crashing about.”
“Did you see anything?” Suddenly, Miller’s voice was more serious.
“Just the same lights you saw. Probably poachers. But they’ve long gone.” Jack wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t mention the awful cry, or the blood he’d seen. Maybe it was fear that they were being observed, that the group had crept back while he and Miller were talking, had blended into the trees, and was watching them. They’d just killed. Jack was in no doubt about that. That blood he’d seen was fresh. There was nothing to stop them from doing it again.
There was the stag, too. The way it had come crashing in, distracting the group; how it had just stood there, watching Jack. He didn’t talk to other people about it, but since Josh had died, from time to time, he’d sensed his presence. The thought had come into his head out of nowhere. But he knew. Somehow, Josh had sent that stag to save him.
* * *
By the time he got home, Jack was chilled through. After letting a disapproving Beamer into the yard, he had a hot shower and poured himself a large scotch. For the second day running, he’d forgotten to go shopping. He thought gratefully of the remains of Lucy’s casserole from the night before. At least he had that.
* * *
As he lay in bed that night, Jack was wide awake, unable to wind his mind down enough to sleep. An owl hooted outside. Too much was uncertain right now, as it was for Jen. He couldn’t understand, either, how there was no evidence of a child at Jessamine Cottage.
In Jack’s experience, a complete cleanup of a house was next to impossible. He’d have expected forensics to find something, however small. But there had been at least four days before the place was identified as Evie’s home. Four days in which to strip the place, if someone had wanted to. Unlikely, he knew, but it was something to think about.
One thing he did know—he wanted to talk to Abbie, and then to Jen. Maybe she’d recognize him from walking in the woods. It might even help. Gods knows what it was like to be in her situation: to trust yourself so little that you couldn’t even believe your own thoughts.
The need to talk to her came from his gut. If she recognized him, maybe she’d trust him. He also needed to talk to someone about what he’d seen in the woods. Again, probably Abbie. He’d no idea why he hadn’t told Miller about the blood he’d found—or the horrible scream that still haunted him. The way the man had appeared out of nowhere had unnerved Jack. He needed to sleep. It was amazing how sleep could clarify even the most confused thoughts.
Closing his eyes, he tried to blot out the thoughts racing through his head, telling himself that he’d known Miller for years, that he was a decent man. But it was hopeless to try to sleep. It had been the same after Josh had died, when Jack had been unable to stop his mind from overthinking, from going round in circles as he went over every detail, tormenting himself with “what-ifs” and “if onlys.”
In the end, he got up and went downstairs, put the kettle on, as thoughts of Jen Russell and Leah Danning filled his head. With a hot cup of tea, he sat down and turned his laptop on, typed into the search bar. Leah Danning. Scrolling down the pages, he saw links to news items and press releases. He’d forgotten how huge the case had been. As he read these, it seemed to him as though the whole country had been on tenterhooks, waiting for Leah to be found. That a small child could disappear without a trace had left every mother fearful for her own children’s safety. He couldn’t believe how long ago it was.
He’d forgotten about sleep. His mind was fully alert as he carried on reading. The police had found nothing to link the attack on Jen Russell and her daughter to Leah’s disappearance, but this was rural Cornwall, known for its solitude and peacefulness. It was his gut again, not the cold, hard evidence the police needed, but it seemed too much of a coincidence.
He’d talk to Abbie. She knew him well enough not to think he’d lost the plot. Right now he was beginning to wonder. Anyway, he trusted her—and she wouldn’t gossip. He wasn’t so sure about Dan Miller. Maybe that was why he hadn’t mentioned the awful cry he’d heard—that and the blood.
After sitting back in his chair, Jack must have dozed off, as he awoke with a start. Beamer was barking, not the muffled kind of noise he made when he was dreaming, but a full-on alert bark, which meant he’d heard something.
“Hey, what is it?”
But Beamer ignored him, barking agitatedly.
“Come on, Beamer. Quiet.”
There was no stopping him. After getting up, Jack went to unlock the back door. Beamer followed, still barking. As he opened the door, the dog barged past before disappearing into the darkness. Jack could hear him whining as, out of sight, he followed the trail of something. Probably a rabbit or a fox. He only hoped there wasn’t a person hanging around out there.
Then the night went completely silent.
“Beamer? Here! Good boy!” Jack called, but there was no reply. Cursing the dog, he pulled on his boots, then reached for a jacket from one of the hooks beside the door, feeling for the flashlight in one of the pockets.
“Beamer?” Outside, he switched it on, shining the beam around the yard, but there was no sign of the dog. “Beamer!” Jack raised his voice. There were no neighbors to worry about disturbing. The nearest house was at least a mile away.
Out there in the darkness, there was nothing. No birds, not even a breeze. Above him, the moon was obscured by clouds. Everything was black, muffled. Silent.
He called again, then at last heard Beamer coming through the bushes—at least, Jack hoped it was him. A sense of relief filled him when the bushes moved and the dog’s head came into view. He was wearing that slightly apologetic look he had when he knew he’d done something wrong. Then, as Jack shone the flashlight at him, he saw he was carrying something.
Beamer followed him to the back door, where Jack reached for his collar, but the dog pushed past him, carrying his trophy inside. The last thing Jack wanted in the house was a dead rabbit, which no doubt Beamer would mangle on the floor for him to clean up later. Hurrying after him, he found him lying in the kitchen, the rabbit held between his paws.
Only when he switched the kitchen light on, Jack saw it wasn’t a rabbit. Looking at him, Beamer whimpered, and then he got up and walked away. Jack took a closer look. What he’d thought was a rabbit was in fact a bundle of fabric, maybe clothing. He picked it up, and under the dirt ingrained on it, he could make out a floral pattern. Then he quickly put it down, looked at his fingers, which were coated with blood.