Part of the Silence

I stay away from the hospital for a couple of days, until Abbie Rose calls me.

“Evie’s going home. I’d hoped her mother would be able to stay, but she’s had to fly back. She lives in Italy. I wanted to ask you if you’d be able to spend some time with her. I understand if you’re too busy, but it’s a big step and, understandably, she’s anxious.”

But also, there isn’t anyone else. She doesn’t have to say it. I’m all too aware. Jesus, as if I’m an unpaid police volunteer or something. “Of course, Detective Constable.” But I’m not doing it for her. “When’s she going?”

“The plan is tomorrow afternoon. We’re arranging a police guard round the clock, and I’ll be with her a lot of the time. It’s just . . .” She makes no mention of the body I found in the field. I wonder, Does she even know?

“You want someone there she trusts.”

Abbie Rose hesitates, but she doesn’t take the bait. “I suppose you could put it like that.” She pauses again. “I was thinking more along the lines of her needing a friend.”

* * *

The next morning, I oversleep. I’m hungover after too much wine, trying to blot out the memory of the girl’s body. It crosses my mind to cancel, but I’ve nothing else scheduled, and I’m curious, wondering what it will be like for Jen to be home. Since the attack, her life has consisted of that hospital bed in that bare white room, with vile food, fussing nurses, and Abbie Rose probing into her life.

I leave it till mid-afternoon. Knowing hospitals, I can’t imagine her being discharged any earlier than that. Then, as I drive over to Helen Osterman’s cottage, I’m reminded of the times we camped there. In truth, being outside Jen’s immediate circle, I wasn’t often invited. About twice, I think, during a year when we had a mutual friend. Sophie. Her name comes to me. I haven’t given Sophie a thought in over a decade.

I overshoot the rough road to Jen’s house the first time. When I slam on the brakes to reverse into a gateway, someone almost rear-ends me. Resisting the temptation to shout four-letter words as they honk, then accelerate past, I breathe deeply. Saving my energy. The world is full of arseholes.

The rough road that leads to the house is full of potholes. I drive slowly, picking my way around them, until parked up ahead, I see a BMW, which I guess must belong to Abbie Rose. I like her choice in cars. I pull up behind it, then get out and stand there for a moment, looking around, trying to remember where our teenage campsite used to be.

Then I shiver, as suddenly the past is back. Ghosts of us all, the friendships, the closed circles, the cruel exclusions caused by teenage politics. I used to be in the background of it all, until I made a friend who felt the same way I did. After that, there was no stopping me.

This place isn’t as it used to be. Not just because the trees need cutting back. They’ve grown too tall, so that they overhang the rough road, blocking out the light and leaving the house in shade. The hedge, too, is unkempt and wild looking, heavy with overripe blackberries, the narrow gate in it hung unevenly.

As I walk up the path, I notice the air of neglect. The paint on the window frames is peeling, and there are tiles missing on the roof. Even so, it’s an interesting house. Mostly old—seventeenth century, I’d guess—and not big, even with the usual tacked-on additions that have come much later, but it isn’t friendly. In fact, the energy I pick up is anything but.

The front door is open, and I knock, then, without waiting for an answer, go in, curious to see inside. The interior looks as though it’s stuck in a time warp, with a tiny sixties fireplace that needs ripping out and a threadbare patterned carpet, under which I wouldn’t mind guessing are huge, uneven slabs of Cornish slate. The walls are wonderfully uneven, and the furniture is decades old. The odd piece is tasteful, though most of it’s not. And the curtains . . . I’m still trying to find the words to describe them when I hear footsteps.

“Hello . . . ,” I call out. “It’s Charlotte. Harrison.”

Further inside, a door opens, and Abbie Rose stands there. “Hi, Charlotte.”

“I’m so sorry. I should have been here an hour ago. I had something urgent to attend to,” I say, apologizing, thinking of my hangover, which has mercifully dissipated after a couple of ibuprofen and several cups of strong coffee drunk in the bracing air before I left.

“Don’t worry. I was beginning to think you’d got lost. A quick word . . .”

“What? Has something else happened?”

“I understand it was you who found the girl’s body . . . in the field.”

The police grapevine is as good as the surfers’. I nod.

“I wanted to ask you not to mention it to Evie. If we think it necessary, of course we’ll tell her. But right now, when she’s already on a knife-edge, I think it would be better to leave it a day or two. Does that make sense?”

“Whatever you say.” I raise my eyebrows. More bloody subterfuge and deception at every turn, despite the fact that there’s a child missing. “But if I were her, I’d want to know.”

“I’m sure—” She breaks off. “But under the circumstances, I’d prefer it if you’d let me handle this.”

“Sure,” I say offhandedly. Maybe dishonesty is the best policy. And I don’t want to be the one to add another load of shit to Jen’s already backbreaking burden.

“Thank you. Come through. Jen—Evie’s—in the kitchen.”

I follow her along a wood-paneled passageway, through the door at the end, to where a small, hunched figure is sitting at the table with her back to us.

“Evie?” Abbie moves forward, then gently touches her arm. “Charlotte’s here. Remember I told you she was coming?”

Having seen her in the hospital, I don’t know why I’m shocked, but somehow here her appearance is incongruous, the coziness of her surroundings only accentuating how frail she looks.

“Hi.” I have a sudden feeling I shouldn’t be here. If I were her, I’d want to be alone. “How are you?”

“Okay.” She barely moves, just whispers it.

“Evie?” I have to stop myself from calling her Jen. “Do you remember when your aunt lived here and we all camped in the woods one summer?”

Jen looks blankly at me, but then I see something flicker in her eyes.

“One of your friends—Sophie—invited me along. I remembered her only as I was driving here. I used to help her with her French homework.” It was the only reason she’d invited me. When she dropped French, she dropped me not long after. “If I’m honest, we weren’t exactly close friends. But I was always so pleased to be included.”

Then Jen turns her head toward me. I can’t fathom the look in her eyes; it’s almost as though she knows something I don’t. “I do remember. Charley and Casey. You were friends.”

“You’re right.” I attempt a smile, even though I’m uneasy. My friendship with Casey had been volatile. Maybe in some ways, we were too alike, both of us ungrounded, insecure, vulnerable. “We were, for a while. But it didn’t last. Funny, isn’t it, looking back? How short-lived teenage friendships can be.”

She nods vaguely as I remind myself that old friendships are the last thing on her mind. All she can think about is her daughter.

“Coming back here has been quite a shock,” Abbie Rose says quietly. “The house isn’t as Evie remembers it.”

Jen turns to look at her, then at me. “It’s all wrong,” she says, her eyes suddenly darting around, filled with anxiety. “It’s Angel’s room . . .”

I frown. “What do you mean exactly—”

“Angel’s things aren’t there,” Abbie Rose interrupts. “Evie remembers her bed being pink, with her toys and books . . .”

“Someone’s taken them,” Jen says tearfully. Then she stares at Abbie Rose. “You don’t believe me. I can tell from your voice.” She says it accusingly, then adds in a different, more desperate voice, “Charlotte, please, come and see. . . .”

Then she’s on her feet. Her weakness is obvious as she makes her way to the door, then into the hallway and up the stairs. I walk behind her, worried she’s going to miss her footing. When I glance back, Abbie Rose is standing at the bottom, watching us.

“In here.” She stumbles forward, toward the door at the top of the stairs, then pushes it open, switches on the light. From the doorway, I watch her. She shakes her head, tears coursing down her cheeks, taking in the plain furniture and old-fashioned bedcovers, the dusty rug on worn floorboards.

“Her bed is pink.” Her arms are clutched around herself, as if she’s holding herself together. “There should be a picture.” She points to a bare section of wall. “Oh God, where are her things?” Suddenly, she’s shaking. Then, without warning, she slumps to the floor.