The Silent Twin (13 page)

D
S Baxter’s
face was set in a mask of composure as she took her seat. ‘They’ve identified the body taken from the river. It’s not Abigail.’

Nick blurted out his relief in a string of nonsensical word, tears running unbidden down his face. ‘Oh God, Abi . . . Abi, my little girl . . .’ Shoulders shaking, he crossed his arms over the desk and wept into them like a baby. The room was silent, apart from the squeak of the tape machine as the tape cogs turned ominously, picking up every sniffle, every tear of despair.

As much as DS Baxter tried to bring Nick back to the line of questioning, the moment had been lost, and Nick was only interested in the recent developments.

‘If it’s not my Abi, then who is it?’ he asked, accepting the offer of a tissue from DC Kelly.

DS Baxter spoke in clipped tones. ‘A young homeless girl who disappeared in Lexton. It’s believed she may have jumped off the bridge and been carried downstream.’

‘What age was she?’

‘Nineteen.’ DS Baxter pre-empted Nick’s next question. ‘She was a heavy drug user, very waif-like.’

Nick frowned. ‘Abigail was just a child. How could they have thought it was her?’

‘We never said it was. You asked to be kept abreast of
every
development,’ DS Baxter said, in a pitiless voice. It was plainly obvious she thought he was responsible, and being on the wrong side of a police interview was opening Nick’s eyes in more ways than one. He turned his focus to DC Kelly, deciding to ignore Baxter from now on. ‘Well, at least for some family the nightmare is over. But what about us? What next?’

DC Kelly cleared his throat. ‘We keep looking. Nick, hundreds of officers have been drafted into this. Your colleagues have come home from their leave to get involved in the search. Officers are working on enquiries around the clock, many of them over their rest days. We won’t let go until we find your daughter. That, I can promise you.’

Nick nodded, blowing his nose one last time before shoving the tissue into his back pocket. ‘Does this mean we’re finished?’

DC Kelly began to nod, but was swiftly interrupted by DS Baxter.

‘Just one more thing.’ She glanced over their notes. ‘Before we were interrupted, you said you were tired, “you thought you could do this but you couldn’t”. What were you going to say?’

Nick shrugged. ‘That I blame myself. I should have been watching her. I’m meant to be there to protect my children, and I let them both down.’

‘And Olivia? Why is she scared of you?’

‘She’s not. She’s just traumatised by the loss of her sister. Talk to her if you want. It’s my wife who refused help for her, not me.’

‘And Joanna? How does her reaction strike you?’

‘I’m a copper, not a psychiatrist. It’s unprofessional of you ask me to assess her reaction to all of this.’ Nick stood, and leaned his hands on the back of his chair. ‘Now, seeing as I’m not under arrest, I’m going home to be with my family.’

The news of the identity of the body had been met by a wave of relief when Jennifer passed it on to the family. For her, it brought mixed reactions. She had felt all along that Abigail was in soil, not water. Logic told her that if this was the case, she was most likely dead. Yet something held her back. A small wisp tugged at her senses, something she could not share for fear of giving them false hope. Dare she believe that Abigail was alive?

Jennifer’s phone beeped with a text informing her that Nick was returning home. She downed the cup of tea that Fiona had made her and finished her ham sandwich. Like her, Fiona was staying on late to help the family. She had given up telling her that she took coffee with two sugars rather than tea with none. It was hardly surprising that Fiona was distracted, and the drink washed down well with the slabs of homemade soda bread that she presented fresh from the oven. They had all found different ways of coping with Abigail’s disappearance: baking and making hundreds of cups of tea seemed to be Fiona’s. Jennifer would watch her staring vacantly out the window, only to jump when the oven timer emitted a shrill ring. Jennifer wondered why the woman had never had children herself, as she was so good at looking after everybody else’s.

Jennifer brought her mug to the sink and followed Fiona’s line of sight to the fields in the distance, now bathed in darkness.

‘Do you see your family at all?’ Jennifer said.

Fiona smiled. ‘Not as often as I’d like. My mother’s in Canada and my father passed away last year.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Jennifer said, observing Fiona for a flicker of regret, or a change in expression. Full background checks had been made on all persons of significance, and Fiona’s words rang true. The scrunch of car tyres on gravel snapped Fiona out of her daydream, and she busied herself setting the table she had cleared minutes before. Her role seemed like an endless round of tea- and sandwich-making. If she was unhappy about it, she never gave any indication.

Nick pushed open the kitchen door, beckoning to Jennifer from the hall. His hair jutted up at the sides, dishevelled and unkempt, and he seemed oblivious to the state he was in. Lack of sleep had brought him to his knees, and Jennifer wondered how long he could keep going. She followed him into the living room, which held the sweet smell of damp logs that hissed in the recently lit open fire. She had been informed about how the interview had progressed, but remained on her guard in case he wanted to admonish her for her distrust.

Nick ran his fingers through his hair, his face looking haggard in the glow of the flickering embers. ‘I don’t want any bad feelings between us. I’ve never been a FLO, but I know how hard it must be, coming into all of this and having to take on everyone’s frustrations.’

Jennifer nodded, relief sweeping through her. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation. ‘Thanks. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t concerned me. But I’m here as an investigator, not to make tea. I have to follow up every concern, no matter how small.’

‘I know,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve not given up hope, though. She might still be out there, alive.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘That’s why it’s important you pull together as a family. You know, underneath all that bravado, Joanna’s suffering too.’

Nick’s lips thinned at the mention of his wife, and Jennifer sensed he was swallowing back his words. He would not trust Jennifer now, not even with the slightest throwaway comment.

‘You look terrible. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? I’ll let you know if there’s any development this end.’

A bitter laugh escaped Nick’s lips. ‘If only I could. I’m an insomniac. Sleep doesn’t come easy, and lately . . . it doesn’t come at all.’

Jennifer chewed the lipstick from her bottom lip, wishing there was something she could say to make things better. ‘Why don’t you get some food down you? Fiona’s prepared supper. I think she enjoys fussing over everyone.’

Nick reached for the door knob. ‘I could do with a coffee . . . will you be joining me?’

‘I’ve just eaten, thanks, and I’ve got some phone calls to catch up on.’

She watched him plod down the hall, his body giving off all the signals of a man fighting a losing battle.

Her colleague’s updates brought nothing new. The police hadn’t ruled out the possibility of a kidnapping, and efforts were being made to investigate all traffic passing in and out of Haven that day – including the movements of the elusive handyman, Radcliffe.

Picking her way through the darkness, Jennifer retraced Abigail’s last known steps as she took the call, and by the time the conversation ended she found herself under the lights of the outbuildings where Nick had been working that day. Closing her eyes, she tried to pick up the vibrations running through the farm. But the ancient mutterings and whispers had little bearing on the little blonde girl who had disappeared. Then out of the background, a man’s voice filtered through, but this one was very much alive. Jennifer stole a glance from inside the shed. It was Nick, having a heated phone conversation he clearly didn’t want shared.

His tones were hushed but aggravated, and he kicked the dirt as he approached, too deep in conversation to notice her hiding behind the shed door.

‘I told you, as long as you act normal and keep your mouth shut it’ll be fine . . . No . . . I didn’t say anything . . . Well, you’ll have to take my word for it . . .’

Jennifer held her breath as Nick’s voice grew louder. She should find a hiding place and keep out of sight. But as Nick’s voice grew more aggravated, she knew this was a conversation she couldn’t afford to miss.

‘Listen, you need to get your shit together,’ Nick said, leaning against the shed door. ‘No, you listen to me. I’ve lost everything . . . my home, my family . . .’ His voice cracked, ‘No . . . now isn’t the time. I’ve told you before, I’m not interested . . . Olivia won’t say a word . . . because I know.’

Jennifer leaned back, her heel kicking the galvanized metal lining the wall. The sound seemed to echo around the farmyard, and she bit her lip as she ducked down behind a stack of hay bales.

Nick spun around. ‘I’ve got to go. Just act normal. All right . . . all right . . . I’ll speak to you later.’

Jennifer strained to hear Nick end the call and take slow, steady steps inside the barn. The sweet smell of the hay tickled her nose, provoking a sneeze. I don’t believe this, Jennifer thought, pinching the bridge of her nose as she stemmed her breath.

‘Hello?’ he called out, his footsteps getting nearer.

Jennifer crouched down as far as she could go. She was going to feel very stupid if she got caught hiding in the shed. Nick would surely kick her out for spying on him, or worse. Every day the stress strengthened his anger, and he wouldn’t believe that her presence was coincidental. She was well within her rights to challenge him. His comments were damning, and she committed them to memory, feeling more like a spy than a Family Liaison Officer. But she didn’t want to confront him. The information would go in a report, rather than compromise her relationship with the family.

Nick’s footsteps lightened as he tiptoed around the shed. He had stopped calling out, and warning lights began to flash in her head. What if she had heard too much? She thought of the pitchfork lying against the shed wall. He could be standing on the other side of the straw, ready to strike at any second. The thought made her pulse quicken as she worked out a strategy. She was too far away from the house to shout for help. She thought of her phone, nestled in her pocket. Any minute now, Will would be calling her, wondering where she was. Nick’s footsteps grew louder as he searched the shed, and she closed her eyes and sent a plea for help. A gust of wind hit the walls, sending a loose sheet of galvanized metal clattering in response. Jennifer mouthed silent thanks as Nick turned and left the shed. She quickly punched in a text to Will. She wasn’t coming home just yet. She had work to do.

I
wanted to laugh
, to allow my authentic self to come out to play. But instead, I pushed everything down, no time for playing, at least not today. So I played with Olivia instead. Well, when I say played, I mean I watched her mope about and drew some pleasure from it. It makes me question the value of her existence. If Abigail is gone, then isn’t it kinder to let her go too? Such thoughts came to me as I stood in her shadow, watching her stare mournfully from the bedroom window, eyes half open, with her hands by her sides, while everyone else gathered downstairs. Lost. Alone. Forgotten. Emotions I know too well. As if someone had scooped out her soul and promised to come back for the rest later.

It’s been two days now. Two days of watching the household become turned on its head. I’ve enjoyed it so much, I’ve decided I’m not ready to let her go. Not yet. Last night I paid Abigail a visit. On the way over, I had the feeling I wasn’t alone. That creepy-crawly feeling you get, like spiders on your skin. I wandered through the undergrowth, my boots sticking in the mud. The darkness provides a much bigger challenge, and I depended on the light of the moon to guide my path. I was at the point of giving up when I found her, sleeping in her pit. A strange stirring squirmed in my gut as I stared down at her from my vantage point. I was holding her life in my hands. And I liked it. A mole in a hole. Helpless and blind, completely at my mercy. I threw her some scraps and she took them gratefully, calling for Mummy, Daddy, or whoever she believed me to be. The power was all mine, at least until they found her. And they would. And I can’t have that. I can’t have that at all.

T
he relief
that the body had been identified as some other poor soul was short-lived, as psychic Marcella announced her arrival and invited herself in. Joanna hadn’t seen fit to tell anyone of her arrangements for a séance. Jennifer was aghast, and Nick furious. It did little to dissuade the attending psychic, whose presence caused an argument within thirty seconds of her arrival. Jennifer’s suggestion of an evening with friends seemed to be the best solution all around. A couple of hours in a quiet pub would ease Nick’s frayed nerves, and give Joanna a break from his disappointed looks. Matt drove over to pick him up, and with a resigned shake of the head, he braved the rain and jumped into his friend’s car.

Marcella took in the room, her eyes alight. A small gold-spangled woman in her sixties, she was followed by a reedy young man no more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Marcella pushed off her hood, revealing a shock of frizzy blonde hair. No doubt the black-hooded cloak was something she used to great effect, Jennifer thought. Underneath she was dressed in a long black flowing skirt and a puffy ivory satin blouse. Her fingers were lined with rings and the bracelets on her arms jangled as she walked. This was the stereotypical view of a psychic in Haven, but in Jennifer’s experience people with gifts could take many forms: an innocent child, or a well-heeled detective. She had come into contact with Marcella for ten minutes and the woman’s croaky voice was already getting on her nerves.

‘Ooohh, I sense great sadness within these walls,’ the psychic said, her head swivelling left to right as her fingers teased the air. ‘There is much unease in this home.’

No shit, Sherlock, Jennifer thought, her jaw tight. People like Marcella were the reason she hated to be labelled a psychic, and her communications with the dead were nothing like the theatrical performances Marcella had in store. She had watched her in action when she investigated one of her stage shows, and although no wrongdoing was proven, Jennifer had doubts about her abilities.

Jennifer had wondered why Joanna arranged for Olivia to go to her grandparents’ house for a couple of hours. It was doubtful they would have been happy, had they known the reason why.

‘Did you know about this?’ Jennifer whispered as Fiona leaned her weight against the heavy door to close it.

‘I knew about Olivia going out, but nothing of this . . . this psychic,’ she said, pronouncing it as if it were a dirty word.

‘You don’t think it will do any good?’ Jennifer asked.

Fiona’s brows creased in a disapproving frown. ‘It’s not done much good so far, has it?’

She was referring to Nick walking out. And that led Jennifer nicely into questioning her about Nick’s friendship with Karen, who happened to be in the car when her brother picked Nick up. She had already texted Will, hoping he would conduct some off-duty surveillance on her behalf. ‘What about . . .’ Jennifer began to say.

They were interrupted by the flow of voices coming down the stairs. Joanna was wearing her usual counterfeit smile. Her manicured fingers slid down the banister as she spoke animatedly to Marcella about the history of the house.

Fiona eased her coat from the hook on the wall. ‘I’ll leave you to it. See you tomorrow.’

Joanna’s face fell. ‘Oh. I’d like you to stay. I’ll pay you overtime.’

Fiona groaned, still holding her coat mid-air. ‘I’m not really a believer . . .’

‘Please,’ Joanna said. ‘Just for an hour. We need three or more people for the séance.’

Sighing, Fiona rested her coat back on the hook and followed them through to the kitchen.

If Marcella picked up any line of communication with Abigail, she didn’t show it. She seemed more interested in communicating with the spirits of the past that still walked the corridors. They were nothing new to Jennifer, who had caught their whispers the first day she arrived. So many spirits occupied this space. The old man who had died in the living room, age-worn and tied to the lands. The woman who passed through the walls with an oil lamp, checking her fevered children. Such were merely echoes of the past, and not capable of hurting anyone. But there was one ugly presence which seeped into the walls of the home. The more time she spent there, the more convinced Jennifer became that the dark entity she had encountered had taken residence, and was not leaving any time soon. But malevolent beings were not responsible for Abigail’s disappearance. To her, the answers lay much closer to home.

Joanna struck a match, igniting a tang of sulphur in its wake. It touched the wick of one of the candles that made up the centrepiece of the small circular table dragged in from the living room. Next to the candles was a photo of Abigail, and a plate of soda bread; an offering to encourage the spirits. According to Marcella, they were attracted to the warm glow of the candlelight and comfort of food.

Enticements were never needed, as far as Jennifer was concerned. She took her place at the table, her eyes skimming over the young man sitting behind Marcella. Mystics often had a silent helper ready to jump into action should anything go wrong. His old-fashioned cardigan and corduroy trousers were hardly weekend wear for a young man his age. But something told her he did not socialise with his peers. His dark hair was tightly cut, and he had the same delicate unlined hands and pale skin as Marcella. Jennifer tried to catch his eye, but he stared expressionless into the distance. She could sense it. His presence was like a poultice, drawing out the spirits that lurked beneath the shadows. As the candles danced and flickered, the temperature began to chill, raising a row of goosebumps on Jennifer’s arms.

‘Gather around, please,’ Marcella said, placing her hands on the tarnished wood. ‘Place your palms flat on the table, until our little fingers are touching.’ She lowered her voice as she leaned forward. ‘Whatever happens, you must not break the circle.’

Despite her misgivings, Jennifer’s heart fluttered in her chest. She wanted contact with Abigail more than anything, but communicating in this way was akin to inviting a stranger into your home. Malevolent spirits often lied to gain the trust of their host, and once the door was open, it was very hard to close. She directed her focus solely on Abigail, touching fingers with Marcella and Fiona either side. Fiona was looking very nervous for someone that claimed not to believe. Joanna completed the circle, and they sat around the dancing candlelight, waiting for Marcella to begin.

Closing her eyes, Marcella took in a whistling breath through her noise and out through her mouth.

‘Our beloved Abigail, we bring you gifts from life into death. Commune with us, sweet child, be guided by the light of this world and move among us.’

Marcella’s slow, rhythmic chanting brought the darkness ever closer as the words rolled off her tongue. The boy closed his eyes, his pale lips moving slightly, but producing no sound. They were near. The army of the dead. Marcella fell quiet, opening herself up to the spirit of the little girl.

Jennifer shuddered, a sense of dread falling upon her. It’s all right for them, she thought, her eyes flicking across the table to Joanna and Fiona.
They don’t feel what I feel.
A pang of guilt cut her short as she remembered Joanna’s less than enviable position. She switched her focus, trying to draw comfort from the sounds of the kitchen. The tick of the clock. The crackle of the logs burning in the Aga. But there was nothing. She was being plunged into the netherworld and she was helpless to stop it. And slowly they came. She could hear the steps of the barefooted ghosts, padding down stairs and creeping through the corridors; the creak of a floorboard, the opening of a door. Jennifer’s eyes flickered open and closed. They were here. Without knowing it, the trance had drawn her in, and her sixth sense had taken over. Her eyes crept around the room as she watched with second sight. A blue-tinged haze had crept in like a fog, forming shapes and outlines of the dead long gone, shoulders hunched, huddling around the table, desperate to have their say.

The figure of an old lady materialised before her, staring pointedly in Jennifer’s direction. Her misty eyes narrowed in disdain, as if Jennifer had no right to be there.

Jennifer drew in a chilled breath, before dropping her gaze to her hands. She could feel them closing in around her. But she didn’t want to speak to them, and her heart skipped a beat as she built up a mental barrier, closing herself off to the hungry spirits.

‘My, the spirits are keen to speak tonight.’ Marcella’s eyes flickered and she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. We are here only to speak to Abigail. Don’t be scared, child. Come talk to us.’

Jennifer kept her eyes cast firmly on the table as an icy coolness seeped in behind her. Soon all she could hear was the swoosh of blood as her heartbeat pounded in her ears. It felt as if a cube of ice had been rubbed on the nape of her neck, and other-world fingers slowly caressed her skin. Tiny hairs prickled on the back of her neck and she fought her natural instincts to run. Jennifer risked a glance upwards. The candles flickered, then one by one snuffed out. One, two, three . . . the darkness was closing in. Marcella chanted under her breath, urging Abigail to come forth.

Jennifer’s breath quickened as fingers stroked her face. They held the coldness of the graveyard, festering in a world they should have moved on from decades ago. Her heart was beating wildly now, and her eyes locked on the pallid face of Marcella’s companion, pleading with him as she held in a scream. She couldn’t break the circle now, even if she wanted to. She was rooted to the spot.
If only she could get to the light switch. Then everything would disappear.

‘Be gone,’ the boy said, breathing out the words in a whisper. ‘You are not welcome. Go now, do you hear?’

Just for a moment, Jennifer felt as if the air was being sucked out of her lungs. They had been trying to enter her body, to use her as a voice to the outside world. But as soon as the boy’s words were uttered, the spirits withdrew. She dragged in a sharp breath, and Marcella raised her head.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, as all eyes turned on Jennifer.

She bobbed her head in three sharp nods, not trusting herself to speak. She wanted to scrub her skin, to wash away the feeling of the insistent bodies crowding in around her.

‘I’m afraid Abigail’s not speaking,’ Marcella said, ‘but I
can
sense a child’s presence . . .’

Joanna glanced around. ‘Oh, the candles on the mantelpiece have gone out. Will I light some more?’

‘Do not break the circle,’ Marcella said, her tone dour. The centrepiece candles illuminated her displeasure. ‘Are you listening to me? I said I sense your
daughter
.’

Joanna apologised, squirming in her chair.

Marcella drew her attention inwards. ‘Your child . . . She’s buried under the ground. She will not rest until you bring her home.’

‘Where?’ Jennifer said, with sudden belief in Marcella’s powers. ‘Where is she?’

‘She is not in the woodlands, or the river, but it is somewhere vast. Somewhere near home . . .’ Her eyelids fluttered shut as she tried to delve further. ‘I . . . I see a “V” sign. Two blackened fingers.’

‘Yes?’ Jennifer said, gnawing her bottom lip. Two blackened fingers meant nothing to her, but right now she would take whatever she could get.

‘I’m picking up the energy of a man. He has done things . . . things he has come to regret. He seeks forgiveness.’

‘Forgiveness for what?’ Joanna asked, taking the words out of Jennifer’s mouth.

‘He’s too ashamed to say. There’s a strong family link.’

‘Who is it?’ Joanna said.

A cold breeze chilled the air as Marcella’s features softened, and she began speaking through pursed lips. The childish voice that carried on her breath made Jennifer’s spine crawl.

‘Please, Daddy, not that, don’t make me do that.’ The room fell silent as the meaning became clear. ‘I’ll be a good girl, please Daddy, no, I don’t want to.’

‘Who is this?’ Marcella said, breaking away from the voice inhabiting her body. ‘Who is this speaking?’

The voice mocked, as Marcella’s features turned upwards in a smile. ‘Half a pound of tuppennny rice, half a pound of treacle. That’s the way the money goes . . .’ She grasped Joanna’s wrist, digging in her nails as she screeched the line, her face sneering, a weathered hag. ‘Pop! Goes the weasel.’

A scream rose in Joanna’s throat as she pulled away from the table, knocking the candles and leaving the circle in a pool of darkness. ‘Get away from me, get away!’ Tripping over herself, she stumbled in the darkness to reach the light switch, flicking it on before finding the door and slamming it behind her. Heavy footsteps pounded the stairs and another door slammed above them.

‘She should have left it alone,’ Fiona murmured, before going after her.

There remained only Jennifer, Marcella and her helper, who was sitting calmly in his chair. ‘I’ve given many readings over the years and this has been one of the most difficult,’ she said, picking up the spilled candles. ‘There are too many conflicting energies in this house, and not all of them have passed on.’ She picked at the candle wax beginning to solidify in a white puddle on the table. ‘This house . . . or perhaps the land of this house . . . is not a positive energy. It does not bring love, or joy, but desolation and sorrow. It will drag this family down into the depths of despair.’

A stifled sob leaked in from the doorway. Jennifer swivelled around, taken aback by Joanna’s naked expression. Gone was the plastic veneer and the robotic smile. Her neatly pinned hair fell loose in strands around her face, and tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks, dragging black mascara trails in their wake. Her words came staggered, as if each syllable caused her pain.

‘What you said about the man . . . Daddy . . . and the voice of the little girl . . . was that Abigail? Was she talking about my . . . husband?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Marcella said, taking Joanna’s hand as she took her seat at the table. ‘I cannot say. I left myself an open vessel. The messages could be from many years ago, or present day. It’s like tuning in to a radio. You don’t know what you’re going to get. But you
should
get your family away from here. I feel there is worse to come if you stay.’