Hidden (35 page)

Imogen shifted, looked up so that she could see the sky. It was beautiful. An unblemished blue. It was, she thought, going to be a lovely day.

I WALK SLOWLY,
feels like each step is heavier than the one before, moving with the slow tide of people. We are all dressed in black, must look like a thundercloud drifting slowly through the hospital grounds. The doors of the chapel have been thrown open, the bulbous sound of organ music drifting out to meet us. But I can tell from here that we won’t be going in, that the hospital chapel already houses as many as it is capable of holding. And that’s okay. I’m content to stand in the garden, with the smell of roses, the cool sunlight on my skin. In fact, it is better this way.

I can see the hospital lobby from here. There is a part of my brain – a major part – that wants to look away. But I won’t let it. Because isn’t that my job? To catalogue tragedies, to write about them so that nobody can forget. So I let my gaze rest on the still boarded-up window, the quiet trickle of people who move in through the sliding lobby doors and out, their heads inexorably pulled to where we stand, the grieving masses. I can hear them thinking it: thank God it wasn’t us.

Aden squeezes my hand. I glance up at him. Smile, or at least move my mouth into a facsimile of a smile. He was released from hospital a couple of days ago. The bullet wound in his shoulder has not entirely healed yet. The doctors say there will always be some scarring, some issues with his range of movement, but that he will, for the most part, recover. They told him he shouldn’t be alone, that there should be someone at home to take care of him. At least, that’s what he told me. I’m not entirely sure I believe him. But I’m happy to go along with the subterfuge. His house is nicer than my flat anyway.

The memorial service is beginning, the pastor’s voice – Welsh and as dense as bread pudding – rolling over the loudspeakers that have been set up outside. I confess that I am not really listening. Instead I watch the people. They, like me, have come to say goodbye to the casualties. Or maybe we are the casualties, the hidden ones whose lives must continue on beyond this event. I’m not sure how it is that we will do that. I simply know we have no choice.

The sunlight catches on red hair, somewhere hidden within the crowd, and for a moment my heart stops and I am back in the lobby, staring at the red hair, at Imogen lying dead. And then the crowd moves and I see her and, seeing her, I wonder how I could ever have mistaken her for her twin. They really were quite different. Perhaps it was their manner, the way they carried themselves. Whatever it was, there is no doubt in my mind that Imogen is before me, standing beneath a thick-spread oak tree, the hand of a small child tucked into hers. She looks pale, thinner than before, like one strong gust and she will be over. Even from this distance, I can see the tears. Then the little girl, with her black velvet dress, the black bow in her ponytail, looks up at her, says something that is lost to the distance and the boom of the pastor, and Imogen smiles.

I look at the man beside her, dark, thick-built, his expression that far-off look of the terminally shell-shocked, and I wonder who he is. I see him nod, think for a moment that he is nodding to me, then realise it is Aden that he is addressing. I glance up at him, a questioning frown.

‘That’s Chief Inspector Jack Lewis. Imogen’s brother-in-law,’ Aden murmurs. ‘He’s a good man.’

Then I hear a name, and my attention snaps back to the pastor’s voice.

‘There were many casualties on that day. We gather today to say our farewells to them. To Ernie Dewer, security guard for forty years.’

Father of four, wife to Margaret, grandfather to seven. Loved chocolate-digestive biscuits.

‘Lester Hockney, the police armourer. A well-respected officer.’

Lester had retired once, so Aden said, had come back to work because he didn’t like just sitting around and doing nothing. From the information we have been able to piece together, it seems that Rhys suffered a gun-jam after trying, and failing, to kill Imogen. He must have gone to the armoury to restock on weapons, but something in his manner, or what he said, made Lester suspicious. He refused to give Rhys the key to the gun-safe. Lester died from a bullet wound to the chest. His wife had passed away six months previously.

‘Maggie George, aged seventy-two. Grandmother and mother. Stephen Philips, aged twenty-four, just starting out in life.’

Maggie George, a fiercely active member of her community, someone who had just overcome breast cancer. Stephen had been at the hospital that day interviewing for a job in the radiology department and had come out ahead of the pack, although he never got the chance to know that.

I know what name will come next, and even though I want to look away, I cannot take my eyes off Imogen as she stiffens. She knows it too.

‘And Mara Elliott-Lewis, aged thirty-two. Mother to Amy, wife to Jack.’

He had killed Mara in front of me. Must have been stalled by surprise, the belief that he had already killed her once. Of course it hadn’t been Mara at the house. Mara had remained at the hospital, only to die there later than intended. They didn’t find Imogen until a little later – fortunately, minutes rather than hours. A neighbour walking her dog had come across her, a middle-aged woman stunned by the scene of destruction before her. Imogen had been shot in the stomach on Mara’s front path, and had suffered extensively from her wounds. It is a miracle that she survived; a miracle brought about by the gun-jam. Of course wrapped within this miracle was also another tragedy. Had the gun not jammed, he would never have gone to the armoury.

‘There is evil in this world, and sometimes it walks amongst us, and we do not see it until it’s too late.’

I look at Aden, see him look down, shake his head, and I know exactly what it is he is thinking. That Rhys was a boy. A desperately sad, desperately desperate boy in a man’s body. The experts have come out of the woodwork – they always do after things like this. Everyone wants to throw their hat into the ring, be the one to explain how he could do what it was he had done. A lot of the explanations make me want to roll my eyes. But there is one that sticks with me. That Rhys wanted to be seen, wanted to matter, even if the reason he mattered was because he had committed a terrible deed; to his damaged psyche, that would seem better than never to have mattered at all. I think of Rhys – deeply handsome Rhys – walking through a room, think how head after head would turn to follow his progress, and I want to weep. That he was so seen in life, and never could recognise it.

I don’t know how long we have been standing here. I have drifted off, lost in my own thoughts, but then there is a blast of organ music that makes me jump, and slowly, steadily the crowd begins to move. It seems that we are done. I look to Imogen, tug on Aden’s hand.

‘Come on.’

We move through the press of bodies to where she is standing, still beneath the oak tree. I glance at Jack. The tear-tracks are clear on his face. He makes no effort to wipe them away, but reaches out, grasps Aden by the hand.

‘Thank you. For what you did.’

Aden shakes his head, uncomfortable now. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could have been earlier. I wish . . .’

I wish I could have saved your wife for you.

Jack grips his hand, tighter now. ‘You did what you could. You saved a lot of lives. Thank you for that.’

I look to Imogen, her gaze fixed beyond me, on what remains of the hospital lobby.

‘How are you?’ I ask.

She snaps her head back, seems vaguely surprised to see me before her. ‘Oh, you know. They just released me. From the hospital. So, I’m . . .’ She glances down at the little girl. ‘Amy, honey, stay with Daddy for a second, okay. I’m going to have a chat with Charlie.’

The little girl bites her lip, nods. You can see it in her eyes, the fear that her aunt too will leave and not come back.

‘How is she doing?’ I nod towards Amy as we move away.

Imogen shrugs. ‘She keeps asking when her mother is coming back. She doesn’t understand. But then,’ she said quietly, ‘who does?’

I reach out and take her hand within mine.

‘I should have known.’ The words fall out of Imogen in a hurry, like she has to say them fast or she won’t say them at all. She looks at me. ‘I should have seen it in him. Rhys . . . I knew that he had problems, I could see there was more than he was willing to tell me. But I should have . . .’

I squeeze her hand. ‘What? Seen the future? You couldn’t have foreseen this. No one could.’ I look back at Aden, still talking softly with Jack. Think of him crying on my shoulder, the same words coming from him. I should have known. ‘Rhys was a man who needed help, but he was too good at putting on a brave face, and simply didn’t have the words to ask. What he did – the choices he made – they are his responsibility. Not yours.’

Imogen nods, brushes away a tear. ‘Did you hear about Dylan Lowe?’

They removed his feeding tube. He passed away yesterday morning.

I nod. ‘At least the family can begin to grieve now.’ Carla was at the hospital, the morning Rhys came for them. Steve was waiting to kick the crap out of Aden, the younger children were with their grandparents. For a dreadfully unlucky family, they were lucky that day. It was only because the neighbour saw Rhys drive away that we ever knew he was there at all.

‘Yes.’

‘A’tie Im?’ Amy has broken away from her father, is watching us, fearful.

‘I’m coming, my love. I should go.’ This last to me. She gives my hand a squeeze. ‘You take care. Both of you.’

I stand and watch her walk away from me, through the slowly flowing crowd, watch her take Amy by the hand.

‘You ready?’

I glance up at Aden and smile. ‘Can we just do one more thing?’

The chapel is almost empty now. The organist still plays and I wonder if someone should stop her, remind her that her duty is over, that she can go. I move along the pews, to the alcove that sits beneath the stained-glass window. Candles dance a flickering orange, leaving specks across my vision. I hang there awkwardly for a moment. There is probably a prayer that I should say, but I don’t know any. So instead I settle for slipping a coin into the box, picking up one of the tea-lights and lighting it carefully, on the shimmering flames. I set it down in the front row and then step back.

I glance up at Aden. ‘For Emily.’

Writing can be a terrifying foray into an unknown world. This book, however, truly was a labour of love, and there are so many people who have eased its path into this world.

First and foremost, to all those at the Darley Anderson Literary Agency. You’re all just ridiculously lovely. But especially to the always spectacular Camilla Wray. Both my agent and my friend, you have guided, cheered and supported me through my second book as only you can. Truly none of this would be possible without you.

To the wonderful team at Arrow – thank you so much for being, as ever, an absolute joy to work with. Particular thanks to Jenny Geras for your incredible insight, guidance and support. Thank you to Francesca Pathak for your perceptive editorial guidance. Thank you to Joanna Taylor for picking up the reins so seamlessly, and to Philippa Cotton for bringing
Hidden
to the attention of readers. And to Becke Parker, whose drive, humour and unfailing brilliance have made my first forays into the world of publicity seem almost effortless.

I sought advice from many people in my efforts to keep
Hidden
as true to life as possible. Thank you to Jason Evans of the
South Wales Evening Post
for your fascinating insight into the world of crime-reporting. Also to Dr Catherine Atkins, for taking time out of your very busy schedule to sit down with me and check my understanding of all things medical.

To Donna Llewellyn, for advising me on any and all police matters, for making me copious amounts of tea, and for never failing to listen to my complaining and my worries with patience and affection. I never fail to consider myself privileged to have you as my dearest friend.

To my husband Matthew, for helping me get my facts straight, being willing to drive me ridiculous distances just so that I am not doing it alone and, quite simply, being your wonderful self. For you, my love, thank you will never seem quite enough.

I hope that I have done justice to the expertise of these brilliant people, and any mistakes that you may find are, I confess, well and truly mine.

To my family – to Mum and Dad, Ma & Pops, Cam & Deb – thank you for your unfailing support and for being the greatest cheerleaders a girl could ever have.

And finally, to my sons, Daniel and Joseph. Thank you simply for being you.

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Epub ISBN: 9781448184576

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