Libby rubbed her eyes and stared at her computer screen, but the words were blurring together, making it hard to proofread her report. It had been a long day that had ended with a trip to the emergency room with a patient who had a serious case of peritonitis.
None of it was helped by her lack of sleep. Her dreams were filled with policemen turning up to reconstruct the pink nail from the tiny blob of black smoulder that had been left behind, before dragging Sam away from the house.
No. She’d screamed at them, I have to keep him safe. You don’t understand. It’s my job. That’s why Nathan married me.
But her voice was muffled and she’d been forced to watch the police car disappear down the road. She’d woken up covered in sweat, and by the time the dawn had pushed through the half-drawn curtains, she was exhausted and on edge.
Which was nothing to how she felt now.
She swallowed, her mouth thick with the aftertaste of coffee and the headache tablets she’d taken earlier. Sighing, she went back to the beginning and read over it before uploading it and signing out of the network. Then she picked up her own phone and refreshed the local news feed. But it was only showing the same article that had been there in the morning. It was a vague report that police were still investigating and wouldn’t be making any further comments until they knew more.
Did that mean it was over?
She hoped so. Burning the nail had been so instinctive, so right, that she’d done it before she could fully consider the ethical implications. Which was probably for the best. Besides, it didn’t really matter what she ethically thought; it only mattered what her actions had been. The actions of a mother looking after her kid.
I did the right thing.
‘You still here? I thought your shift finished an hour ago.’ Jonathan appeared in the doorway of the staff room. Libby jumped to her feet, a combination of worrying that he could somehow read her thoughts, and the caffeine that was still pounding through her veins.
‘You scared me.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and he raised an eyebrow, his gaze racking over her.
‘It’s three in the afternoon and I was whistling as I walked in. If I scared you, it’s because you’re running on empty.’
She swallowed. It was clear by the concern in his eyes that he hadn’t forgotten about the mistake she’d made with the trolley. The back of her knees buckled and she swayed slightly.
‘Of course not. I’m fine… just a little tired.’
He folded his arms across his chest, mouth in a grim line. ‘You’re not fine. You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept properly?’
‘When is the last time any women in their forties slept properly?’ she said but he didn’t laugh.
‘I know there’s been a lot going on at home with the twins. But you need to look after yourself. Not just for your own sake, but for your patients as well.’ This time, he held her gaze. Libby pressed her lips together, hating that he was right, but grateful that he was a good enough friend to be honest.
‘It’s okay. I promise I’ve got things under control. And it’s only three weeks until the trip, which means I’ll get a proper break.’
He continued to study her; before he could answer, Denise walked in and grinned.
‘My favourite two people. I just bumped into Nancy and there’s a quiz night next Tuesday at the Albatross. I put our names down. Team Don’t Ask Us Any Cricket Questions can ride again. You both in?’
‘Sure. Sounds great,’ Libby quickly said, pleased for the subject change.
‘Sorry, no can do.’ Jonathan shook his head. ‘That’s when our darts team will be claiming victory in the final. We were cheated last year, but this time around, we’ll be wiping the floor with them.’
‘I forgot all about it,’ Denise admitted. ‘Lib, does that mean you’ll be going to cheer Nathan on?’
Libby swallowed, not wanting to admit she’d also forgotten about the local team that Nathan and Jonathan had joined a couple of years ago. They’d started going as a joke but had both become competitive with it.
‘I don’t want to put him off his game,’ she said in a light voice.
‘Fair enough. Quiz night it is,’ Denise said before wrinkling her nose. ‘And by the way, weren’t you meant to finish an hour ago?’
‘We were just discussing that,’ Jonathan said. Libby held up her hands in defeat. The conversation was going from bad to worse.
‘I know when I’m beaten. I’ll see you both tomorrow.’ She picked up her bag and coat before she was given another lecture on working too hard. The temperature had dropped, making her glad she had her jacket on. She followed the path that led down to the car park and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Nathan was stuck at work, Sienna was studying with a friend, and Sam wasn’t showing any signs of changing his mind about speaking to her, so she was on her own. Usually, she hated the empty house, but after the last week, the idea of being alone was almost a relief.
She pulled out her phone and brought up the number for her favourite Indian restaurant, but before she could dial, a car nearby reversed and straightened up, the headlights flashing into the front of Libby’s own car.
Did they realise they had their full beam on? Tiny dots danced in front of her eyes and her vision blurred as the car in question came to a halt, effectively blocking her in.
Libby’s pulse quickened as a shadow emerged from the driver’s seat. Her mind emptied out, leaving her effectively stuck in the car unable to move as the figure reached the window.
It was Fiona Watkins. Her dark hair was pulled back off her face and she was wearing a very well fitted wool suit, complete with heels.
What did she want now? Had she heard about Libby’s visit to the hospital yesterday? Her nerves jangled as she stared at Fiona through the glass. She longed to turn on her engine and drive away but that was no longer possible. She’d crossed the line when she’d destroyed the nail. Which meant whatever Fiona wanted was probably something Libby needed to know about. Foretold was forearmed.
She reluctantly let down the window. ‘What’s going on? Have the police caught someone?’
‘Not that they’ve told me,’ Fiona’s voice was cool. Libby hadn’t really expected a different answer but all the same, her breath quickened. She just wanted this whole thing to be over. ‘But we need to talk.’
‘I’ve already told you everything I know. I wasn’t the only one there.’
Fiona scoffed. ‘The police officers were both in uniform and seem to think they’ll be viewed as traitors if they even open their mouths and you were the first attending.’ Her mouth softened, though it seemed more from victory than compassion. ‘It’s important. And I’ll buy you dinner.’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Fine. But I can’t stay long.’
‘Great. The Fox and Fen pub is around the corner. I’ll park my car and we’ll walk. You’re doing the right thing.’
Libby didn’t bother to answer as she climbed out of the car and tightened her jacket against the cool night breeze. She might be doing the right thing, but who was it right for?
* * *
The Fox and Fen had been refurbished several years ago. The dark wooden panels had been replaced by pale wallpaper and the heavy wool carpet had been lifted to reveal wooden floorboards. They also did great food and Libby often came with Denise after work. However, what little appetite she’d had, disappeared on the walk over with Fiona.
It was clear the journalist had something on her mind and Libby’s anxiety was thundering through her body like a drum. The pub was noisy and the sharp buzz of conversation and the clink and clash of glasses and cutlery swept through her. Several of her colleagues were in the far corner and Libby forced herself to plaster on a smile and wave on her way to the bar.
‘I’ll get the drinks and food if you want to grab us a table. What will you have?’ Fiona asked. Libby swallowed. Usually, she’d only have a soft drink when she was driving, but the overwhelm of Fiona’s intensity and the pub itself were muddling her thoughts. She needed to calm down.
‘A glass of Pinot Gris, and wedges, thanks,’ Libby replied. Fiona raised a pleased eyebrow, no doubt hoping the alcohol might make Libby more talkative. She just hoped it would help her calm down and not do anything stupid, like go running out of the place.
Libby made her way through the busy public bar, bypassing her colleagues, until she found a quieter table. She sat down and tried to regain some composure. And by the time Fiona appeared several minutes later holding the drinks and a table number, Libby was able to give her a polite smile.
‘I ordered wedges with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce for both of us.’ Fiona slid a wine glass towards her. It was a large one. Libby picked it up and took a sip, letting the alcohol course through her nervous system. Then she met Fiona’s eyes.
‘What’s this really about?’
‘I had a call from one of my sources. He said that yesterday, a woman turned up at the lock-up on Lymington Road where Hayley had been held, asking lots of questions. Blonde, in her thirties. Was it you?’
‘Are you serious?’ Libby pointed to her thick tangle of dark curls. Not to mention the fine lines around her eyes.
‘There are such things as wigs and men can be idiots.’ Fiona gave a dismissive snort and narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ She frowned. She had driven past the place a few times but hadn’t dared get out of the car. ‘Why would I go there anyway? You’re the one who’s interested in the story, not me.’
‘Exactly, and if it wasn’t you, then it might mean another journalist is sniffing around. Have you been approached by anyone else?’
‘No. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have spoken to them,’ Libby said, emphasising the last words. They both knew there was only one reason she was here.
‘Good,’ Fiona retorted, impervious to the dig. ‘There’s a story here and I want to find it. No way am I going to let some out-of-town journalist or YouTube true crime influencers get in my way.’
‘What do you mean?’ Libby’s mouth went dry and she picked up her wine glass again, finally understanding the implications of what it meant. Someone else was asking questions.
‘I mean that not everyone’s as scrupulous as I am,’ Fiona said without irony. ‘You have no idea how many corners some of these hacks cut. And it’s only going to make the police close ranks and give us even less information. Not that they seem to be doing much.’
‘Does that mean they’re no longer investigating it?’ Libby tried to drop her shoulders and pretend it was just a casual question. But it was at odds with the rapid beat of her heart.
‘Not with any urgency. It seems the lock hadn’t been tampered with, which means Hayley wasn’t being held against her will. So, when she woke up, she simply opened the door and walked out.’
‘What?’ Libby’s eyes widened and this time she didn’t try and hide her surprise. ‘That wasn’t reported in the papers.’
‘Of course not. They can’t print it without implying that Hayley had been making the whole thing up.’
‘But you don’t think that’s the case?’
Fiona’s lips tightened. ‘No. My source told me that forensics couldn’t find any prints or hair follicles in the lock-up apart from Hayley’s. That’s not the kind of thing an amateur could get away with. I mean, it’s more than just wearing gloves. It takes planning. A lot of planning.’
‘So why did they spend so much time planning it and then forget to lock the door?’
‘My question exactly. All I can think is that whoever was responsible did lock it and someone else came along later and unlocked it.’
‘You think someone else knew what was happening and wanted to stop it without anyone getting in trouble?’ Libby caught her breath.
‘I do, and I intend to find out who. The prick gave her ketamine. No wonder she was so out of it.’
‘Shit.’ Libby shuddered, horrified at the fate that might have awaited Hayley and surprised at just how much Fiona knew.
‘Exactly. Which is why you’re here.’ Fiona tapped the screen of her phone. ‘There was a CCTV camera outside the lock-up but it wasn’t filming. However, a nearby neighbour had installed the cameras to stop kids vandalising his rubbish bins. His place is on one side of the private road leading up to the lock-ups, so it’s not clear if this is the right person, but it does fit the timeline.’
What?
A thousand volts of electricity raced through her. The sound of it hummed in her ears, pushing away the outside world, and she wasn’t sure if she remembered how to breathe. But she had to. It was bad enough that Fiona had dragged her into this but she couldn’t afford to let the journalist suspect Libby knew any more than a regular paramedic who had turned up to do a job.
‘D-do they know who it is?’ Sweat beaded on her collarbone.
‘Not yet. Which is why I wanted you to see it. You were at Steamer Point when Hayley was found. Was there anyone else around? If there is a chance you can identify them, it will be a big break through. Here. Have a look.’ Fiona thrust the phone at Libby.
No.
Whatever it was, she didn’t want to see it.
But it was too late, and her traitorous eyes focused in on the image. The photograph had been taken at night and wasn’t much more than a blur of black and grey pixels. Still, she couldn’t look away, and as her vision adjusted, she managed to pick out a shrouded figure. It was from the back and their head was covered in a hoodie, making it even harder to identify who was beneath it.
Libby’s throat tightened. On the sleeve were several white dots, as if someone had dripped a paint brush down it. Ice trickled down her spine. The whiteness was brighter than the rest of the photograph. Almost as if the paint had been luminous. Or orange. From a senior school art class. Barely daring to breathe, her gaze dropped down to the cuff, already knowing that would be frayed from an overzealous cat.
Her vision blurred and she looked away. But it was far too late for that. The image was burned into her brain and something in her chest broke open. No. It couldn’t be true.
Ever since she’d arrived at Steamer Point and seen Hayley’s crumpled body, Libby felt like she’d been thrust into a never-ending nightscape. But that had been nothing compared to the terrible ache that was now creeping into her limbs.
It couldn’t be true.
And yet it was.
Because she might not recognise the figure beneath but she knew exactly where the hoodie had come from. She’d last seen it in the back of Sam’s car, before she’d washed it and left it in the laundry, waiting for Sam to fold it up and put it away.
‘Do you know this person?’ Fiona leaned forward, clearly hopeful.
‘No.’ Her voice was hoarse and raw and she gripped at the table to steady herself. She was melting down. Crumbling. All her years on the job, facing untold horrors, and none of them had prepared her for this. For having to consider that the boy she loved so very much could possibly have done something so terrible.
It swept over her like a wave, pushing the air from her lungs. She had to get out of there. Away from Fiona’s sharp eyes and the implications that hung in the air, like fairy lights, flashing in front of her, refusing to go away.
Fiona’s phone rang and the journalist swore as she checked the number. ‘I have to take this.’
‘O-of course. I need to go anyway.’ Libby reached for the half empty glass of wine, swallowed it in one long gulp and lurched to her feet, grateful for the chance to escape. Fiona gave her a quick nod then turned away.
Somehow, Libby managed to stay on her feet as she wove her way through the crowd. Once outside, she sagged against the wall of the pub and tugged at the collar of her blouse. She booked a car to collect her, knowing that even without the alcohol, she was in no fit state to drive. Once it was done, she stared at her hands, which were shaking. They were the same hands that Sam had clung to when they were crossing the road. That had washed his hair when he was getting a bath and that had clapped when he’d collected yet another rowing medal.
But now that seemed like a hundred years ago. Another lifetime. And—
Stop it.
She straightened her spine and pushed away the dark thoughts. They weren’t helping anyone. Sam was still her son. She was still his mother and that meant she had to get home and find the grey hoodie she’d taken out of Sam’s car last weekend. Back when all she had to worry about was a fingernail.