The Silent Twin (21 page)

A
nother evening
, another round of briefings, and the full extent of their enquiries were revealed as DCI Anderson made a short appearance in the briefing room. Up until now, the evidence had been kept close to his chest. The justification for Radcliffe’s arrest had come after the press appeal produced an anonymous call. The witness had stated that Radcliffe was seen carrying something to the woods. Something wrapped in a blanket. According to DCI Anderson, the house search had unearthed vital evidence, such as a browsing history on his computer displaying an interest in children. Nothing illegal, but numerous images from Facebook, downloaded for darker intents. All they needed was a body – or a confession – but neither were forthcoming. The Crown Prosecution Service had authorised bail, as Radcliffe’s van was seized for forensic testing.

‘We’ll be able to curtail your time at the house when we get a charge, at least until the court case,’ the DCI said, with the hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Hopefully this will help the family get on with their lives. The search has been resumed in the woods, and I’ll leave it to you to update the family.’ He paused, noticing Jennifer’s glum expression. ‘You don’t seem very happy, DC Knight. What’s the matter with you?’

That’s rich, Jennifer thought, coming from someone whose face was set in a permanent scowl. ‘Sorry, sir, I just find it hard to believe Radcliffe is responsible. I think our suspect is closer to home.’

DCI Anderson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you any evidence to back this up?’

‘No,’ Jennifer said, wishing she had engaged her brain before her mouth.

‘Well, then I suggest you return to the family and update them on our findings. Oh, and keep your opinions on the case to yourself, unless you have anything to substantiate your claims.’

Jennifer reddened, feeling like a schoolgirl as she was chastised in front of her colleagues. ‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered, keeping her eyes to the floor.

But as she drove into the yard of Blackwater farm, the nagging voice returned. Her eyes alighted on Nick, and he quickly glanced away, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his wax jacket as he made his way down the dirt track to the woodlands.

‘Nick,’ Jennifer shouted, flinging open her car door. ‘We need to talk.’

The four words stopped him dead in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around.

‘Let’s walk,’ Jennifer said, taking her place beside him on the rugged track. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You made the anonymous call.’ Her words were met with silence, conceding the truth of her assertion. ‘You said the woodlands was the one place that couldn’t be searched properly.’

Nick ploughed down the track with little regard for Jennifer trying to keep up in her unsuitable designer heels. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being on my back?’

‘You know me by now,’ Jennifer said.

‘Does it matter who made the call? Nick said coldly. ‘Looks like it was him after all.’

‘Does it?’ Jennifer said. ‘Yes, he’s a loner with a fascination for children, but the only evidence is circumstantial.’

Nick kept on walking, his brow furrowed as he worked things over.

‘Nick, I’m all for catching whoever’s responsible. But not like this. You know it’s wrong, don’t you?’ Jennifer said, the wind stealing her words.

Nick tilted his head in her direction, shouting over the gusts. ‘They were pulling back the search. And if DCI Anderson believes Radcliffe’s responsible, then it’s good enough for me.’

‘They’re bailing him while they carry out forensics on his van. Promise me you won’t go near him.’

He lowered his head against the rising wind. ‘Of course,’ he replied, his voice cold and even. ‘Justice will prevail in the end.’

Jennifer slowed, allowing him to carry on without her, until he disappeared from view. She tilted her head to the sky, inhaling the scent of the countryside.

‘Come back to us, Abigail,’ she whispered to the wind. ‘Come back to us soon.’

T
he most mundane
things often trigger memories. Strawberries evoked my latest recollection. The sticky red juice poured from my helping of pie, lacing my fingers and dripping onto my plate. It brought forth an image of her blood, rich and red, pooling onto the wooden floor. It’s been a long time since I dusted off that memory, but I recall it with pristine clarity.

The photo sessions carried on for another whole year, tapering off when I hit puberty. But instead of going away, my hatred grew, blooming like a bitter poison in my chest. Relief came when I began to turn the hurt outwards, releasing the frustration with each sharp slice of the blade. I began to experiment, using mirrors, glass and broken bottles to gouge my flesh. Mother caught me one day, engraving the word ‘dirty’ into my stomach with the knife she used for peeling potatoes. I had only got as far as ‘dirt’ when she forced me into the car. A whole year of therapy followed, which was a complete waste of my time. As if I was going to lead them to the photos I tried so hard to cover up.

I
t was
little wonder I reacted by pushing Mother down the stairs. She had tried to help in her mealy-mouthed way, but I wasn’t ready to go back there again. Not then. She wanted to have me committed, because the therapy was not working. She said I was impossible to live with, but I knew that all my family wanted was to turn their backs on me. I remember my heart feeling like it was punching its way out of my chest as I stole a glance downstairs. The deathly cracking noise of Mother’s skull hitting the lino reverberated in the sunlit hall, and shockwaves passed through me as reality dawned. The mundane things in life merged with my horror; the bin man whistling as he passed our gate, the low rumble of the lorry trundling by. The world hadn’t stopped spinning, despite the fact my mother was dead. And I had killed her. There was no way she could lose that much blood and still be alive.

I smile to myself now, as I recall just how shocked I was, and how far I have come. Her skirt had risen ungraciously to her thighs, exposing her pasty white flesh, and her arms and legs splayed in right angles like a human swastika. A wave of nausea passed over me and I grasped for the banister. I took a few deep breaths to calm down, but I couldn’t stop shaking. Then came the primal urge to run. Acting on impulse had always been my downfall. But not any more. Somewhere in the chaos and panic in my brain was a slow sensible voice telling me to wait. In a way, my entry into killing was gentle, easy. But I had to be quick. Delays would raise suspicion. I paced the landing as I worked out what to do next. Purdy, the tortoiseshell cat, narrowed her green eyes at me while Maggie mewed downstairs, making footprints in the blood. I smiled as Panther lapped at the bright red liquid. He was the only one of all her damned cats that I liked.
My babies,
she called them. They even had their own birth certificates, in a special silver frame. Mine was kept in a brown leather bag, with a grocery list hastily scribbled on the back.
Beans, eggs, bread, milk.
Ah, treasured moments. Mother found solace in her cats, and I found solace in a razor blade.

I tiptoed back to the landing, staring in wonderment. I was fourteen years old and had changed the course of our lives with a simple push. She was badly broken, her leg coming back upon itself as if she was trying to kick herself in the mouth. A wild giggle erupted in my throat, startling me as it escaped my lips in a puff of air. It was only then that I realised Purdy was in my grasp. My mind had been busy plotting my survival, but my fingers had reached out to touch her treasured cat. As if sensing my intentions, Purdy flattened her ears and released a mean growl. I wrapped my fingers around her collar and, with some satisfaction, flung her down the stairs. Legs flaying, eyes wide, she bounced against the steps until she landed on Mother’s backside and ran skidding out to the kitchen. I kicked the mat into a ruck on the upstairs landing. It was a stupid place to have it anyway. She had tripped, that was all. It wasn’t difficult to let myself out the back door then make a big show of having found her. Having to play the mourning offspring was exhausting, but as it turned out I had little time for grief. It wasn’t long before I could move on to something new.

H
e should have stayed away
, Nick thought, as he circled Radcliffe’s home. The cottage was nestled on the outskirts of Haven, down a dog walkers’ country lane. It had taken every ounce of Nick’s strength to reach it. He showed no mercy to his body as it cried out for sleep, forcing it to walk the three miles through the back roads so he would not be seen. He would not have put it past the police to have him under surveillance, although he had seen the yearly budget and he knew they couldn’t afford it. He thought of DC Knight, her eyes full of conviction when she talked about following correct procedures, and doing things the right way. But contrary to his comment earlier, he knew more than anyone that justice didn’t always prevail. He had closed enough unsolved cases to know of the pain that families carried when the perpetrator of evil was free to roam at will. Life was unfair, but he would not be a victim. If Radcliffe would not tell him Abigail’s whereabouts, then he would die.

As time ticked mercilessly by, it was a case of his daughter’s life or Radcliffe’s. He didn’t want to believe it, but it had to be him. He had interrogated the police system on Jennifer’s laptop, when she had been distracted by talking to Joanna. Radcliffe was a loner, and police intelligence stated he had an interest in children, photographing them in the town. A police search at his home had produced hundreds of pictures on his computer and more hung on the walls. Why the fascination unless he was building up to something? He vaguely remembered making an anonymous call, in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn’t come. But he had never imagined it would lead to all this. He had only done it so they would keep searching the woods.

Nick’s stomach churned in a mixture of disgust and hunger. When was the last time he had eaten? He couldn’t remember. His shirt collar felt damp as he rubbed the back of his neck. It felt strange to be on the other side, to be the person about to commit a crime. He pushed his fist into his jacket pocket and ran his fingers over the cable. He had thought long and hard about how he was going to do this. Any form of blood spilling was messy, and left a trail of forensic evidence. No, he would enter like a ghost, catch Radcliffe off-guard while he was asleep. Then he would wrap the cable around his neck, demanding he reveal where Abigail was. A balaclava would protect his identity, and his gloves would prevent the damning fingerprints that would bring police to his door. He had never been to Radcliffe’s home, which now struck him as odd. He was a police officer. How could he allow this man in their lives without knowing how he lived? And now Radcliffe had been bailed. Surely the police would have advised him that returning home would leave him open to vigilante acts? Perhaps he felt he deserved it. Or perhaps it was arrogance. Nick settled on the second reason, because it would make it easier for him to do what he needed to do. Lately he felt as if his masculinity had been called into question, as if somehow he was less of a man. Coming out to DC Knight had been a test for what lay ahead, and he didn’t know if he was strong enough to go through with it. Since Abigail’s disappearance, his pride had taken a battering. What sort of man allows someone to take his daughter and does nothing about it? He knew what his parents would say: that he wasn’t a man at all. Charles Radcliffe wasn’t going to confess. And even if he were sent down, he’d be somewhere that Nick couldn’t get to him. It would eat him up inside, and he’d never truly be free. He needed to confront him; to watch the life leave his eyes.

Satisfied there was nobody watching, he pulled on his balaclava and gloves. The thick wire cable felt clumsy in his hands. Radcliffe was strong. What would happen if the tables were turned and Radcliffe tried to kill him? Would it be such a bad thing? At least he would be with his daughter. It was an option he would have surrendered to, if it were not for the tiny spark of hope that she may still be alive. He thought of his Matt, and his own fractured family, Joanna and the girls. What would become of them? He gritted his teeth. He could either turn back now or get on with it.

He rammed his weight against the back door and it flew open with a shudder.

Nick was surprised. He hadn’t expected entry to be that easy. It couldn’t have been bolted because there it was, gaping open in front of him. The yellow torch beam jittered, exposing his tattered nerves. He clicked the off switch and stowed it in his jacket pocket. The cottage was not bathed the glow of street lamps, like many homes in Haven. But he had been walking at night for so long now, his eyes were accustomed to darkness. Nick took a breath, trying to calm his galloping heart. A scrawny-looking mouse hopped over the dishes in the kitchen sink, stopping him in his tracks. Nick slowly twisted the door knob.

N
ick froze
at the sight of Radcliffe’s sleeping silhouette. He had expected him to be in bed, not asleep in an armchair, a crocheted blanket over his lap. It was 3 a.m., and this was not a social visit. The hall light guided his path as he picked his way through Charles’s litter-strewn living room, and Nick raised his nose to detect the sweet tang of cannabis in the air. He wasn’t here for that. This was not police business. Each step inside transported him further towards the wrong side of the law, and his breath came thick and heavy as his heart pounded in his chest. Beads of moisture gathered around the mouth hole of his balaclava, and an itch began to form. He wanted to pull the thing off, to wake up Radcliffe and ask him what he’d done with his daughter. He sidestepped the empty coffee mugs and overspilling ashtrays, licking his lips to ease the dryness in his throat. Days of shouting for his daughter had made it raw and painful, but it was the least of his concerns. A voice in the back of his mind whispered that this was all too convenient, that nobody left their doors unbolted any more, especially not someone accused of child abduction. But there was no turning back now. This bastard had taken his little girl, probably done unspeakable things to her and disposed of her like a piece of rubbish without a backward glance. They had allowed him into their home, fed him, paid him. And he had been eyeing her up, watching her run around the farmyard. The thought repulsed him. Had he intended on taking Abigail all along? Their bright spark? Their livewire? Or was he going to settle on Olivia? Quiet, trusting Olivia, ready to take anyone’s hand. He had allowed this man to hurt his family. It was time to make him pay. Blind hate rose up inside him as he approached the slumbering figure. Radcliffe slept with his legs crossed, wearing the same blue pullover which had become snagged from the briars paving the entrance to the woods. Nick’s jaw tightened as he remembered that day; Radcliffe insisting on pushing through the thorns to investigate an old plastic bin liner. Had he been putting himself at the scene in case his forensics were found later? Or was he a leech, feeding off their pain?

A voice whispered in his consciousness. It was the voice of his wife.
You’re not a violent man. Come home. We’ll find another way.
The voice was an act of self-preservation. If he was caught . . . Being in prison was every police officer’s nightmare, and he would rather be dead than face the people he had put away. He shuffled behind Radcliffe, jostling against a coffee table. Radcliffe’s snore came to an abrupt halt.
Clumsy stupid idiot,
he admonished himself, preparing to bolt for the door. Gradually Radcliffe’s breathing returned to a slow, steady pace.

Nick steeled himself for action, every muscle in his body tensing as he gripped the wire flex. The voice piped up again with more urgency.
Stop and think about what you’re about to do. This is murder.
It wasn’t difficult to counteract, because his justification had been playing in a loop since he left the house. What about Abigail? She’s just a child. Did he stop and give her a chance? Standing behind the chair, he thrust the cord over Radcliffe head, tightening it around his throat.

Radcliffe’s eyes snapped open, and his body slackened as Nick overpowered him.

Nick expected him to cry out, to clutch at his arms, to scream, to fight. But he sat there, immobile, blinking in the shallow light. As if he wanted to die. Nick pulled his bulk from the chair as he tightened the grip around his neck. Radcliffe was muscled from physical work. He could take Nick if he wanted to, but he made no effort to defend himself. ‘Where’s Abigail?’ Nick rasped. In the darkness the two figures were bonded by the loss of a little girl.

Eyes bulging, Radcliffe gurgled a whisper, but Nick couldn’t make out the man’s words. He eased his grip slightly, aware it could be a trap. Radcliffe’s hands fell to his side, making no attempt to grasp the cord threatening to end his life. A trickle of sweat fell into Nick’s eye as he fought to support the dead weight. He blinked back the stinging salt liquid and growled in Radcliffe’s ear.

‘I said, where is Abigail? Tell me now or I’ll kill you. I mean it.’

‘Make it quick,’ Radcliffe whispered hoarsely.

Nick loosened his grip. He had not planned for this. Was that why Radcliffe had left his door unlocked? Why he was sitting in his chair? Had he been waiting for Nick to come along and administer his punishment? He released his grip and threw the man across the room. He would not grant him his wish. Radcliffe choked and spluttered as he was released, his words tinged with disappointment.

‘Why didn’t you finish it, Nick?’

Nick ripped the balaclava from his head, anger and bitterness coursing through him.

‘Because it’s what you wanted. What have you done with my daughter, you bastard? Is she here?’

Radcliffe rose to his feet, one hand around his neck. ‘I’ve not touched Abigail, I swear.’

‘Why did you come back?’ Nick said, slightly dizzy as a wave of sickness took his breath. He had almost committed murder.

Radcliffe approached him warily, an eerie calmness in his voice. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I can tell you the truth, if you want it.’

‘So you’re ready to confess?’ Nick said, flexing the cable in his hands. But it was all for show. Deep down, his resolve was fading.

Radcliffe sighed, shaking his head. ‘Your DCI has been lying to you, Nick.’

‘If you’re trying to delay . . . have you called the police?’ Nick said, peering out the dingy window for flashing lights.

‘And what good would come from that?’ Radcliffe said, switching on the living room light. ‘DCI Anderson is trying to frame me.’ He brushed past Nick and flicked on the light switch. ‘Here, let me show you.’

Nick blinked as the glare of the one-hundred-watt bulb stung his eyes. It threw the room into sharp focus, and Nick glanced around as his police brain searched for clues. A picture of dogs playing cards around a table hung over a coal-darkened fireplace, and next to the padded chair lay several stacks of books.

Radcliffe caught his stare. ‘It’s
Tsundoku
,’ he said, with perfect pronunciation. A smile caressed his lips, as if the word invoked a memory of long ago. ‘It’s Japanese for out of control book piles.’

He pushed his hand into his jeans pocket, pulling out a piece of red string. On the end was a key. Gesturing at Nick, he took it to a door at the back of the room, and undid the bolt. Nick’s mind was working overtime. He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers around his torch. It was solid, unyielding, and a useful weapon if things went awry. Radcliffe could turn on him at any minute, and for all he knew Abigail could be behind the locked door. He patted his jacket pocket with his left hand and felt the outline of his phone. He could call the police if he needed to, say that Radcliffe invited him there, and as for the cable . . . that was easily disposed of. But by God, if Abigail
was
behind that door he would kill the bastard and fuck the consequences.

The bolt sprang open with an audible clunk, and Nick’s eyes widened as the door opened before him.