The Silent Twin (5 page)

O
ur story has spread
and is bringing with it a wave of hatred and finger pointing. How I wish I could meet with the online trolls who make it their business to despise people they know nothing about. They are ignorant of real hatred, real pain. To them, this is just entertainment. I wanted to lash out today. I wanted to cut, stab, and pierce until my boiling rage subsided. For a few brief seconds, I caressed a carving knife in the kitchen. Gliding my fingers along its sharp edges, I dreamt of the possibilities.
The next person
. . . I thought.
The next person that says another word to me will feel its force.
But the fantasy was quickly forgotten when the detective walked in, and I reluctantly slid my hand from the cutlery drawer, keeping a lid on my emotions long enough to leave the room.

At what point in my development was I marked out as different from everyone else? Was it from birth? My childhood? And did my family ever notice? We would have these stupid dinnertime discussions about how our day went. On the bad days my words just wouldn’t come. My throat felt too tight to swallow, as I fought to dam the tears. Some days I chewed the same mouthful of food, over and over, hoping my mother would get bored and stop asking. School was no better. The older kids noticed my misery, and when nobody else was looking, they pushed me around.

While the other children had school dinners, I tucked into my lunch, packed in an old Quality Street tin. Food became my comfort. My only friend.

My tormentors were experts in sneaking up behind me. I never felt the hands on my back until it was too late, and one day my face made contact with the concrete as I landed on all-fours. A string of blood-tinged spit dribbled from my mouth, and my right knee took the brunt of the fall. I sat back in utter shock as they danced around me, their chants hurting more than the pain in my knee.
Loser, loser,
they mocked, making ‘L’ signs with their fingers against their foreheads. The rest of my lunch ended up in my hair, and smeared in my face. When they were done, they left me there, my loosened tooth producing a dull throbbing pain, my right knee feeling as if it was on fire.

My injuries provided a welcome distraction. When the spit balls landed in my hair during class, I’d put my hand under the table and feel my scab. Its bumps and ridges brought me comfort, as my body fought to heal itself. But I didn’t want it to heal too soon. Picking the crust gave me something to focus on, and silenced the chants in my head. Sometimes I would sit in my room as I picked, watching the beads of blood form, the sharp sting providing release. That day I found a new ally in pain.

A
cold streak
of moonlight flooded through the blinds, casting the kitchen in a monochrome hue. Insomnia crawled over Nick like a nest of spiders, slowing his thoughts and driving his body into a jerky autopilot. He pulled open the cupboard door and closed it again. He wasn’t even hungry. It was two in the morning, and he needed sleep, not food. But sleep was a memory, and the best he could hope for these days was catching an hour or two before dawn. He bumped against the chair, drunk with fatigue. It was nights like this that he could actually feel the weight of his skull.

No sleep for the wicked, he thought, pulling up a chair. He rested his cheek against the cool plastic table cloth, and the faint aroma of bleach and lemons rose up to greet him. He thought of Fiona, keeping house while the rest of them fell apart. He allowed her to linger in his mind, wondering what she would say if she could see him now. He poked the doily with his index finger. Joanna had bought them when they first moved in, her head full of plans of restoring the farm to its natural beauty. As always, he had abandoned rational thinking and allowed himself to be swept up in her enthusiasm. But now it was difficult to see a way back to normality. Since moving to the farm he had not just lost his daughter, but his wife too. Although there in body, the fun-loving, impetuous woman he had fallen in love with was somewhere out of reach. Even Olivia walked around the house in a daze. Poor little Olly, too grieved to speak since her sister’s disappearance. What had she done to deserve this? What had Abigail? Hot tears threatened to spill, and he swallowed back the pain. A hard lump passed down his throat, and he wondered how mental anguish could be manifested as something so real. Night-time was the worst, when he was left alone with his thoughts. But his suffering had begun long before Abigail disappeared. Abigail . . . His heart ached for his little girl, and the loss of his family drove like a blade through his heart. His head jerked up as the creak of a timber echoed overhead. If only they hadn’t come to this godforsaken place.

His eyelids grew leaden as his body screamed for rest, but each time sleep came close, his limbs jerked in an involuntary spasm, shaking his thoughts loose from their resting place. Accusations rushed around his brain like a pinball machine, hitting off the sides with nowhere to go. Guilt, disgust, fear, longing. Nick rubbed his face, wishing he could unplug his mind and settle for numbness as his wife had chosen to do. But his brain ticked on like the hands of a tightly wound clock.

By 4 a.m. he was staring up at the sky through the open kitchen window, allowing the soothing night air to wash over him. He had fallen into a fuzzy pre-sleep standing up, but when a low moaning sound crept through the pipes he jerked, and sought sanctity outside. Somehow, the open air made him feel closer to Abigail, and the sky was beautiful just before dawn. Blue-grey clouds stroked the underbelly of the moon, and sounds of the forest echoed in the distance, reminding him that, somewhere, creatures were coming to life. He thought of the river, running purposefully through Haven. What it would be like to wash himself away. Would he see Abigail then? Or would he go somewhere else, a darker place, fitting for his crime? His footsteps carried him out to the sheds, down the well-worn path past the hen house where Abigail had played the day she disappeared. He stood outside the barn, bathed in moonlight. Where it happened. Shame washed over him. What had he been thinking? He loved his daughters. He would never purposely cause them pain. His shoulders shook as a guttural gasping sound broke free. Shuddering sobs wracked his body and his knees thudded against the broken soil as he finally succumbed to his tears. He hung his head, hiding his shame from the world. Even the moon rejected him as it hid behind the clouds, banishing him to a world of loneliness and despair.

As his sobs subsided he began the merry-go-round of ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’ – the tormented game that grieving people play.
If only
the children had stayed inside like they were meant to.
If only
they hadn’t bought this place. And
what if
he and Joanna had never met? At least then they would have been spared the pain. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t the opportunity to settle down with someone else, but his courage had always escaped him. Why had he agreed to marry her? Deep down he knew why. He was attracted to her vulnerability, and taking care of her made him forget his own problems; helped him turn his back on the life he knew was wrong. Now he wasn’t so sure. She was different to anyone else he had dated, and his friends had warned him, tried to make him see sense. But it was easier to go along with it, set up home and have children. Isn’t that what you were meant to do? And he had wanted children. Abigail and Olivia were the only good thing to come from this whole sorry mess . . . and now . . . His stomach cramped as the realisation hit him again, winding him like a hammer blow. Abigail was gone.

The night chill crept through the crevices in his coat, seizing his body in an involuntary shiver. He clamped his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing the hairs that had begun to rise. The feeling of being watched had stayed with him since he left the house. Damp with dew and exhausted, he turned and headed back for home.

He took the stairs to check on Olivia, gently pushing open her bedroom door. She was in the room she shared with Abigail, the darkness softened by the glow of the night light. Olivia’s blonde hair spilled over the lace pillow, and Nick straightened her duvet, which was rucked from restless dreams. She looked so tiny, her face bare without her glasses. He thought of Abigail’s glasses, found in the yard, dented and cracked, and a fresh wave of pain took his breath. Olivia would always serve as a reminder of what he had lost. Huddled under her duvet, the sight of her sucking her thumb brought fresh tears to his eyes. Abigail’s school uniform hung neatly on the door of the wardrobe. Joanna had wasted no time in cleaning up the room, and as he gazed at the board games stacked neatly in the corner, Nick wondered if Olivia would have to learn how to play alone. It must feel as if half of her has been amputated without anaesthetic, he thought. Fresh guilt overtook the pain. It was wrong, asking her to keep his secret . . . but what choice did he have? Everything would fall apart if it came out now. He couldn’t cope with seeing the disgust in his family’s eyes. And as for his parents . . . it would devastate them. What’s done is done, he thought. Nick stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door, But he was denying the inevitable. The truth would come out in the end. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning, the truth would come.

T
ying
Nick down seemed to be a battle in itself. Rather than sticking together in their grief, the family members were like magnets, set to repel. Gathering them in the same room was next to impossible, and given the last outburst, inadvisable. Fiona had taken on the role of matriarch and Jennifer was damn glad of her. As she placed the tray of tea and sandwiches on the rickety coffee table in the living room, Jennifer was grateful to have someone in her corner.

‘C’mon, sausage,’ Fiona said, taking Olivia gently by the hand. ‘Let’s leave the grown-ups to it.’

Jennifer sipped her tea, wishing it were coffee. Morning briefing had produced no new developments, despite the teams of police working on the case. Pressure was mounting for the safe return of the little girl, and police were working through the hundreds of calls, emails and social media messages produced in the wake of the news report on Abigail’s disappearance. So far, they were a mixture of hate mail, false leads and mistaken sightings. Jennifer gently placed the cup back on the saucer and stared at Nick long enough for him to return her gaze.

‘I know it’s hard. When my nephew went missing, it felt like my world was caving in.’

Nick’s shoulders sagged as he listlessly picked at a ham sandwich. ‘Multiply that by a hundred and you’ll get an idea of what I’m going through.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘Will you do something for me? Put your sergeant hat back on and imagine the tables have turned. Say it’s my child that’s gone missing, and that so far I’ve disappeared for hours, had a domestic with my partner and thrown a tray against the floor. What would you say to me?’

Nick exhaled, and wearily threw the uneaten sandwich back on the plate. ‘I didn’t throw the tray.’

Jennifer blinked, trying to get his words into context. ‘What?’

‘You said I threw things around. I didn’t.’

‘Yesterday. The tray with the coffee and pastries, you upturned the lot.’

Nick shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I didn’t. I walked straight out the door.’

Jennifer was too tired to argue, and let it go. Worries about taking on this case had left her with little sleep, and as each hour passed, she regretted it even more.

Completing the paperwork was easy, given Nick’s experience in the police. Approaching the subject of his daughter’s behaviour was another matter altogether. The fact Olivia had refused to speak was worrying enough, but Jennifer was bothered by the look in the child’s eyes each time Nick entered the room.

Car tyres scrunched in the gravel drive outside. It was soon followed by three heavy raps, which reverberated around the house. Nick stiffened, his face struck by a panic that hit him every time there was a knock at the door. You couldn’t fake that kind of fear. But was it fear for his daughter or himself?

Jennifer rose to answer the door, but Fiona had beaten her to it, and she groaned as a strident voice filled the hall. DCI Anderson gave her a curt nod, before following Fiona and Nick into the kitchen. Jennifer’s spirits lifted as Will stepped in behind him, smartly suited, with his beard neatly trimmed. He must have bagged the job as the DCI’s driver to see her. She stood at the door, her attention drawn to a van in the distance. She glanced past Fiona as the white Transit van abruptly pulled over onto the side of the road.

‘I don’t suppose you know who owns that van, do you?’

Fiona squinted, pulled her glasses from her pocket, and then stared outside. ‘Oh. It’s Radcliffe, the local handyman. He probably doesn’t want to intrude.’

Jennifer recalled the man in the parka, who had glared at her with mistrustful eyes. ‘He can come if he wants. I’m going to have to speak to him at some point anyway,’ she said, before closing the front door. ‘Could you do me a favour and tell Joanna we have guests?’

Fiona nodded and took the stairs.

Jennifer followed everyone into the kitchen. Will’s suit had been dry cleaned, which meant he must have had fair warning he’d be driving for the DCI. So much for recuperation, she thought, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down. Now was not the time to catch his eye. She was all too aware of her DCI, standing stiffly as he waited for Joanna to join them. Nick took a seat, straining to keep a professional front. His fingers were tightly clasped together as he stared stoically ahead, but Jennifer knew that inside he was crumbling.

‘You didn’t have any problems opening the gate, then?’ Jennifer asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

Will shook his head. ‘We drove straight through. It was wide open.’

Nick looked at him, confused. ‘But we closed it last night, and hung the “No Trespassers” sign to keep the journalists out.’

‘I didn’t see any sign,’ Will replied. ‘The press have been all over Haven, but they’ve been turning up at your old address.’

‘Who left the gate open, then?’ Nick said, his head swivelling as Joanna walked into the kitchen.

Jennifer would have expected her to look wretched, with puffy eyes and hair askew. Instead, her morning lie-in had afforded her a refreshed face, her colourful vintage clothes adding a splash of glamour. If her demeanour surprised DCI Anderson, he didn’t show it. Joanna took a seat, the question on her face not urgent enough to reach her lips: had they found her daughter?

‘I’ll keep my visit brief,’ DCI Anderson said, taking a chair. ‘As you know, DC Knight has been assigned to provide updates, but I’d like to speak to you both about conducting a press appeal.’

‘They haven’t found any evidence yet, have they?’ Nick asked, drumming the table with bitten-down nails.

‘Helicopters have scoured the area since first light. It’s difficult with the woodlands, of course.’ His gaze returned to Joanna. ‘The technology picks up heat sources but the trees block their radars.’

‘Oh, so that’s what the noise was this morning,’ Joanna said, smiling politely, with all the interest of someone discussing servicing their car.

Jennifer caught Will’s puzzled expression. Even the sight of him gave her a little tingle inside. He glanced back, and she flushed as she dropped her gaze to her notepad. The last thing she wanted was their DCI cottoning on that they were seeing each other. He’d have them on opposite shifts at the drop of a hat.

Over the next thirty minutes, DCI Anderson brought them up to date on the numerous enquiries taking place. Jennifer monitored Nick’s gaze as he drew upon every word, the DCI trying to provide what little comfort he could.

‘I wouldn’t give up hope just yet. Abigail is unfamiliar with the area and may have become disorientated. The woods are quite dense, and the search teams are very thorough.’ He turned to Joanna. ‘I know things have been fraught for you.’ He paused.

Joanna smiled weakly at the DCI, as if unsure just what mask she should wear for this particular scenario.

He continued. ‘However, we must draw on public support and use the media to our full advantage.’ He threaded his slim fingers and rested his hands on the table. His left eyebrow dropped, as he gave Joanna a stern stare. Jennifer recognised the look. It was the face he used when he gave people a bollocking. ‘Unfortunately this has not been the case to date. Your unannounced television interview has not helped the situation, much less the constant tweeting and use of social media as a vessel to promote your business.’ Nick groaned loudly and the DCI silenced him with a stare.

Jennifer swallowed as quietly as she could. The silence was stiff and awkward. But it all appeared lost on Joanna, who sipped her tea. She placed the cup back on the saucer and smiled politely at the DCI.

‘I didn’t realise there was a law against it.’

The DCI pulled a face as if someone chopped a lemon in half and shoved it in his mouth. He sucked in a sharp breath, his diplomacy exhausted. ‘Mrs Duncan, I am at a complete loss as to why you do not grasp the seriousness of this situation. Your daughter is missing, and despite a full operational search, she appears to have vanished without a trace. Public support is imperative at this time. If you are not careful they’ll turn on you, and make your life a living hell.’ DCI Anderson stared at her intently before continuing. ‘It’s very important we move fast on this, and engage assistance from all available outlets. I need you to attend a press appeal today. DC Knight will explain what is expected of you and will escort you to the venue. I expect you there in one hour. I’ll see myself out. DC Knight, may I have a word?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Jennifer nodded, sidling alongside Will as they left the room. Nick was shaking DCI Anderson by the hand, offering his thanks in hushed tones.

Jennifer took a deep breath as she got outside. Keeping her voice low, she gave Will’s arm a squeeze. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t due back for another couple of days.’

‘I’m not, but the DCI’s driver is out sick and I volunteered to cover. How are you getting on?’ He nodded towards the house. ‘She’s a bit of a cold fish, isn’t she?’

Jennifer took a step back and stared up at the bedroom window. It was empty. ‘Walls have ears,’ she whispered, feeling as if she was being watched. ‘Get in the car.’

Will took the driver’s seat as Jennifer slid in the back. It smelt of new car leather, and was a significant improvement on the vehicles she was allocated for work. ‘It’s all a bit weird,’ Jennifer said. ‘She’s acting like nothing’s happened, and he’s devastated. I just wish they’d find the poor little mite. Olivia’s floating about like a ghost but the only one keeping it together is Fiona, the hired help.’

Will chuckled softly and Jennifer gave him a quizzical look. ‘What are you laughing at?’ she said, wondering what was funny about such a grim situation.

‘You, the cleanliness queen, working out of that ramshackle farmhouse. I thought I’d find you at the sink, scrubbing your fingernails with a wire brush.’

‘Give me time,’ Jennifer said. She thought about it, and rephrased her response. ‘Actually, I’ve been OK. I haven’t had time to think about it.’ It was true. Since being accepted as part of Op Moonlight, some of her old anxieties were melting away.

‘I was expecting the Amityville house,’ Will said. ‘Zoe’s been working around the clock digging up its history.’ Operation Moonlight’s newest detective Zoe was a transferee who also happened to be a qualified exorcist. It was comforting to know her colleagues were approaching it from a different aspect, when traditional methods had failed so far.

‘It’s creepy, and not the most welcoming of places, but nothing’s really jumped out on me yet.’

‘Look out, here he comes,’ Will said. ‘Do you think you can make it to mine tonight? I could run you a bath, provide a bit of stress relief.’

‘Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?’ Jennifer said with a grin.

The smile fell from her face as DCI Anderson slid onto the seat beside her. She had forgotten he always insisted on taking the back seat, like he was royalty or something. He shook a handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted his pasty forehead. ‘So, DC Knight. What do you make of it all?’

Jennifer inwardly glowed. It was nice being taken seriously again, in a case where her opinion mattered. She just wished she had something valuable to impart.

‘I’ve only been with the family a day, but there’s something strange going on. The fact that Joanna is so calm would suggest she’s in shock at the disappearance of her child, but I believe there’s more to it than that. I’m also concerned that Olivia may have witnessed more than we realise. She was about to open up to me when her father came in, then she clammed up and ran out of the room.’

‘I was afraid you’d say that. Do you think he’s hiding something?’

‘The grief he’s displaying is hard to fake. But I do think someone has told his daughter to keep quiet, perhaps threatened her if she speaks. Olivia is the key. I just need some time alone with her in an informal setting.’

DCI Anderson folded the handkerchief and placed it neatly in his breast pocket. ‘I don’t need to remind you that every minute is precious. Abigail has been gone twenty-four hours now. It doesn’t bode well. Don’t let your loyalty to a fellow police officer cloud your judgement. You know the statistics.’

Jennifer knew of the stats he was referring to; and that in most cases of abduction, the answers lay close to home. Missing and abducted children were rarely victims of murder, and just one in every two thousand children reported missing in the UK would be a victim of homicide. But the stats on familial involvement were chilling. Over the past few years nearly two thirds of those victims were killed by a parent or step parent. With each hour that passed, the likelihood of finding Abigail alive became increasingly remote.

‘Sir, I assure you – my priority is that little girl and the safety of her sister. If she
does
know something, she could be in danger too.’

‘In that case I think it’s best if officers try again with a video interview.’

Jennifer kept her composure, knowing a hint of disagreement would go against her. ‘Of course. But if pressured, Olivia may clam up altogether. I believe I’ll have much more luck if I’m allowed to spend some time with the family.’

DCI Anderson paused to give it some consideration. ‘Very well, I’ll give you time. But there’s something I need to divulge, and it’s not to be shared with the family.’