The Missing (47 page)

‘Please …’

I stepped back again, still holding the scissors, blood slick and sticky on my arm and in my hair. I looked into his eyes
and
I thought of all the different ways he had betrayed his family, and I thought of my own father and realised that in his own way he had betrayed me too, and my mother, who had taken so much with so little respect for me, and I was glad, glad that I had the chance to take it out on someone, glad that someone could suffer for all of the wrongs that had been done to me and around me, glad that it was him. Jenny had been a victim twice over. She could have expected him to defend her, not kill her.

At that moment, I hated them all, all the men who thought other people existed only to fulfil their needs. I hated Danny Keane and his evil father; I hated the faceless men who queued up to abuse innocent children. And I hated the man in front of me, the one who could stand in for all the rest, the only one I could reach. I stared into his eyes and I waited for him die and I didn’t lift a finger to help him. It took just over a minute. Not long. It seemed long.

It was only when he slid down the last few inches to lie on the floor and his eyes went dull that I moved, setting the scissors down on the counter, leaving red smears on everything I touched. I turned on the kitchen tap and let the water run into my mouth, swishing it around and spitting it out, the taste of metal making me gag.
Here’s the smell of the blood still
… I washed my hands, lathering up the soap, turning the suds pink with Michael Shepherd’s blood. There was blood under my nails and I worked diligently to get it out. Once my hands were clean, I sat down at the kitchen table, suddenly exhausted. I took out my phone and stared at it. I needed to call Vickers. I needed
to
tell him what had happened, because I had to get myself out of this now. Before I called anyone – before anyone saw what I had done – I needed a story.

The next second, all thoughts of saving myself fled away. There was a noise from behind me and I knew without looking that I’d miscalculated badly.

When I turned around, Valerie was looking straight at me. She had managed to get into a sitting position, leaning up against one of the cupboards. The crossbow bolt was still sticking out of her back, but she was alive.

I stood up and went towards her and her eyes flared. I realised she was afraid – of me – so I stopped a couple of paces away from her.

‘Jesus, Valerie. I thought you were dead. Are you OK?’

‘I heard …’ Valerie said, wheezing a little, ‘… everything. You didn’t have to kill him. He was going to … let you … go.’

‘You don’t know that.’ I was starting to shake.

‘I heard him.’ Her eyes were cold. ‘I’m going to … tell them … what you did. You … murdered … him.’

I looked down at her and I hated her, really hated her.

‘So what? Do you really think anyone will care? Do you really think he didn’t deserve to die? I did the world a favour, you stupid cow.’

Instead of answering, she lifted her hand to show me the mobile phone she was holding. Her own. And the screen was lit up. ‘Did you hear that, sir? … At the Shepherds’ house. Yes … An ambulance, yes. I’ll be … I’ll be OK.’

She disconnected and let the phone fall to the floor
with
a clatter, as if it was too heavy for her. ‘Even if he did … deserve it … it wasn’t up to you … to decide.’

I turned away from her then, and I sat at the table, hands flat in front of me, and didn’t speak to her again. I was learning something now that I should have known already. I hadn’t ever dreamed that I could get exactly what I wanted, and see it crumble to dust in my hands.

There were noises from the front of the house, the policeman’s radio chattering as he pounded on the front door, then shouldered his way in. I was peripherally aware of other uniformed officers filling the kitchen, bending over the bodies, of the paramedics who were working on Valerie and stopped briefly to ask if I was injured too. I shook my head. I just wanted to be left alone. The room was dark with people and filled with noise and I wished they would all go away.

When Blake came, I heard his voice before I saw him, and looked up to see him pushing past another officer, his eyes on me, his face distraught. He crouched beside me and brushed my hair back from my face. ‘I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were gone too. Are you OK? Did he hurt you?’

I sat there, frozen, unable to speak as he held me in his arms. He seemed to be oblivious to the curious looks we were getting from the police and paramedics around us.

‘What happened? Whatever it is, you can tell me. It’s OK, Sarah. Everything’s going to be all right.’

He wouldn’t want me, once he knew. That was the choice I had made. That was what I was going to have to live with.

Over his shoulder, I saw Vickers. He took in the scene at a glance and stepped around Diane Shepherd’s body, then bent down to speak to Valerie. They had got her on to a stretcher by now, and were about to carry her out to the ambulance. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but when Vickers straightened up, his face was grim.

‘Andy,’ he said, touching Blake’s shoulder. ‘Go and make sure Val is all right, please. Find out which hospital they’re going to. I want to have a word with Sarah.’

I could see that Blake wanted to say no and I managed to smile at him a little, and whisper, ‘Go on.’

He went at that, and I watched him walk out, and felt that my heart would break, knowing that she would tell him, knowing what he would think.

After a second, I looked up at Vickers. ‘He wasn’t with you, then. He didn’t hear what you heard.’

The inspector shook his head. ‘I called him and told him to meet me here. He’ll find out, though.’

I looked away. ‘Right.’

‘Sarah, listen to me,’ Vickers said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He leaned over and grabbed my hands, speaking to me in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. ‘Just listen. You’re a vulnerable young woman.’

I laughed. ‘Tell that to Michael Shepherd.’

He squeezed my hands hard and I looked at him, surprised. His face was serious and there was an urgent note in his voice. ‘You’re half the size of Michael Shepherd. He’d shot Valerie, killed his wife in front of you, and confessed to killing his daughter. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were afraid for your life.’

‘Yes.’

‘He threatened to kill you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then he attacked you.’

I looked at Vickers, and I knew he wanted me to lie.

‘You had no choice but to fight back. You managed to get hold of a pair of scissors and you struck out blindly.’

I nodded.

‘When he fell back, you didn’t know what to do. You were in shock and confused. He died before you had a chance to think of getting help. You washed your hands. While that was happening, Valerie recovered enough to call me. I sent units over here to make sure that you were safe, and they found you in a state of shock. It was only when I arrived that you felt safe enough to tell me what happened. Will you remember all of that?’

‘Valerie –’

‘Forget about her,’ Vickers said heavily. ‘She’ll do as I ask.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, and the despair in my voice shocked even me. ‘
He
’ll know. And he’ll never forgive me.’

‘Andy? What makes you say that? He’ll understand, Sarah. Of all people, Andy will understand. He’d have done it himself if you’d come to any harm.’ He spoke even more quietly, and the words were like a silver thread running through the darkness that threatened to engulf me. ‘Live your life, Sarah. Walk away from this, and live your life.’

I wanted to believe it was possible, I really did, but I
knew
better. ‘It doesn’t work that way, Inspector. There’s always a price to pay.’

But I couldn’t help hoping that I was wrong. I couldn’t help thinking, even as I said it, that I’d paid enough. Surely by now I’d paid enough.

The house is empty. The furniture is gone: sold, given to charity, taken to the dump. The carpets have been ripped out; only floorboards remain. The walls are bare, with shadowy outlines where pictures once hung. I walk around one last time, checking that nothing has been forgotten. The rooms seem bigger, the ceilings higher. There’s nothing to disturb the stillness. There are no ghosts in my house – not anymore.

I walk down the stairs, one hand on the banister. My steps echo. In the kitchen, the silence is absolute. The dripping tap has been fixed at last. The clock is gone. The fridge has been switched off.

There’s a noise from the front of the house and I go back to the empty hall. He is standing there, looking at the cardboard box in the middle of the floor.

‘Is this everything?’

I nod. ‘That’s it.’

He crouches down and lifts up the flaps to look inside it. A few photographs. Some books. A child’s cup and a plate with a strawberry motif.

‘You travel light, don’t you?’

I smile at him, thinking that I’m bringing plenty with me, one way or another, and he sees me smile, and he knows exactly why.

‘Come here,’ he says, and I go, fitting into his arms as if I was made to be there. He kisses the top of my head. ‘I’ll carry the box out to the car. Let me know when you’re ready.’

I watch him leave, then wander into the empty living room and out again. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I have everything I need.

I go outside, and I shut the door behind me for the last time. I walk away and I don’t look back.

What was the inspiration for
The Missing
?

I was interested by the idea of exploring what happens to a family in the aftermath of a terrible crime, particularly when there’s no proper resolution. I’ve always felt that the uncertainty, the strain of wondering about what has happened to a loved one, would be infinitely worse than knowing the truth. Also, I’m fascinated by the fact that very dark secrets can be hidden behind outwardly civilised facades. From that starting point, I found myself wondering what would happen if someone who had been damaged by such a traumatic childhood – someone like Sarah – was caught up in a murder investigation. What would happen if you put someone like that under tremendous pressure? How would they act? The plot came together from there.

The Missing
is a brilliant novel of psychological suspense with lots of unexpected twists. Did you know how it would all end when you started out? Are you a planner when it comes to your writing?

From the very start I knew what was going to happen at the end, and how Sarah was going to act in the final scene – everything else in the plot was focused on building up to that point. I did plan it out in some detail, but there were definitely a few surprises once I started writing! Not everything went according to the original plan …

The book is set mostly on a housing estate and in a school in Surrey – are either based on real places?

They aren’t specific places – I’ve played fast and loose with the geography of Surrey, in fact, as anyone who knows it will spot immediately! It’s a very beautiful part of England with a great wealth of woodland and open spaces. The commuter towns tend to have fragmented communities where people don’t necessarily know their neighbours well – the perfect place for crimes to be hidden away.

You’re married to a criminal barrister. Does his job come in useful for your research?

It’s extremely useful to have an expert in the criminal justice system at my beck and call, though I sometimes wonder what people make of the conversations we have in restaurants! As a lawyer, he wants everything to be accurate; as a writer, I want everything to be dramatic. We generally manage to agree in the end.

Which classic novel have you always meant to read and never got round to it?

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I may never read Proust. I sort of feel I should, but the motivation is lacking. And I was utterly defeated by
The Scarlet Letter
by Nathaniel Hawthorne. It isn’t even particularly long …

What are your top five books of all time?

Bleak House
by Charles Dickens,
The Secret History
by Donna Tartt,
Gaudy Night
by Dorothy L. Sayers,
Madame,
Will
You Talk?
by Mary Stewart and the
Pax Britannica
trilogy by Jan Morris.

What book are you currently reading?

The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins, a phenomenal mystery with one of the first great detective characters to appear in fiction, Sergeant Cuff.

Do you have a favourite time of day to write? A favourite place?

I write in the mornings when it’s quiet – usually between six and eight o’clock – and I often end up writing at the kitchen table. But I have written at all times of the day and night and in lots of strange places: trains, airports, cafes, in the garden, in bed, on the sofa while trying to find somewhere for the cat to sit that isn’t actually on my laptop … anywhere and everywhere.

Which fictional character would you most like to meet?

Captain Wentworth from
Persuasion
by Jane Austen.

Who, in your opinion, is the greatest writer of all time?

For the combination of intricate plotting, unforgettable characters, superb descriptions and his ability to define the era in which he was writing, I have to choose Dickens.

Other than writing, what other jobs or professions have you undertaken or considered?

I never seriously wanted to do anything but write or work with books, and I’ve been lucky enough to do both. I did
consider
being a lawyer, a diplomat or a psychologist at various times, but publishing won out in the end. My worst ever job was being a sales assistant in the Christmas-tree section of a big Dublin department store. The Christmas music started in September, the customers were grumpy, and I was always covered in glitter by the end of the day, which got me some very odd looks on the bus. It took me a long time to recover my love for the festive season.