The Silent Twin (22 page)

‘
N
ow do you see
?’ Radcliffe said, casting his arm wide. ‘What’s left of my life is within these four walls.’

Nick’s mouth gaped open as he took in the array of colourful oil paintings of children at play. There must have been two hundred works of art, in varying shapes and sizes. What could not be hung on the walls was stacked in the corner, laced with cobwebs. Half-finished paintings sat on easels, the canvases daubed with a big red X as the artist’s frustration became evident. Only the most beautiful pictures were framed and hung on the main wall. And they were enough to take Nick’s breath away.

‘Did
you
paint these?’ he said in awe.

The same children were featured throughout; a dark-haired boy and a freckle-faced girl, playing in the sunlight, running through fields, rolling down hills, as a dark-haired woman stood watchfully over them.

‘That’s my wife,’ Radcliffe said, pointing to the woman in the blue-flowered dress. ‘And these are my children.’

‘I didn’t know you have . . .’ Nick said, their eyes meeting, cutting him off mid-sentence as his own pain reflected back at him. The pain of a loss so deep it leaves you as nothing but an empty core.

‘Memories,’ Radcliffe said, blinking back the tears. ‘That’s all I’ve left. But I didn’t bring you here for sympathy. I wanted to show you because I’m not some paedophile downloading images of children. I just paint them.’

It was true. ‘I . . . I had no idea you were an artist,’ Nick said, shame washing over him.

‘We don’t all wear berets and carry easels,’ Radcliffe said, gesturing to the framed photograph taking centre stage on the wall. This was not a painting, but a photo of long ago. Nick recognised the family, or at least one of the members. It was Radcliffe with the woman and children from the paintings. But Radcliffe had grown a beard and had gained several lines on his face since then. ‘I had an art exhibition and was meant to join them in Thailand the next day. Petra loved to travel. She insisted we travel long-haul with the kids instead of the usual Costa Brava holiday. It was tiring, but it opened their minds.’ Radcliffe dropped his gaze from the photo, and turned to Nick. ‘I lost them all in one fell swoop, because of my selfishness.’

‘How?’ Nick said.

‘A tsunami. They were on the beach when it happened. They didn’t stand a chance.’ Radcliffe cleared his throat as his voice broke.

‘I’m sorry,’ Nick said. ‘But what has this to do with Abigail?’

‘Nothing. But do you think I’d put another person through my pain?’ Radcliffe said. ‘I lost my family ten years ago, but I can’t let go of them. Not yet. But my paintings, they lack life essence. I can’t paint my children from memory any more. So I spend time in the company of other people’s children . . . but not the way you think. It helps me to paint. I have photos on my computer. Your DCI knows they’re innocent, but he doesn’t care. All of these children, they help keep mine alive.’

Nick’s eyes fell on a painting of the boy and girl in a field of sunflowers. ‘This was painted from the photo of Abigail and Olivia, wasn’t it?’

Radcliffe nodded sadly. ‘Yes. There were a pile of photos on the table and I took one. I’m sorry. I miss my kids. I don’t want their memory to die.’

As Radcliffe broke down, Nick could see he was telling the truth. It was like looking at himself, in ten years’ time. He couldn’t allow himself to end up like this. His daughter’s disappearance had to be resolved.

‘Don’t you know
anything
about Abigail?’

Radcliffe swabbed his tears with his sleeve. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? I wouldn’t wish this pain on another living soul. I should have been with my family that day. If I had been, I could have got them to safety. It’s my fault they’re dead.’

Nick could barely believe what he had heard. The police investigation was totally misleading, and DCI Anderson was at the forefront of it. He had heard the man was a bully, and sailed close to the wind when it came to getting what he wanted to push him further up the ladder of promotion. But to purposely mislead him . . . he almost killed this man. Radcliffe lit a dim lamp in the living room and handed him a small glass of whisky.

‘Here. It’ll take the edge off.’

‘Are you not having one yourself?’ Nick said.

‘No.’ He said, switching off the harsh bulb overhead. ‘If I start, I may never stop.’

The men talked until dawn broke and the sun began to filter through the curtains. Nick didn’t have to believe him. The fact that the man had suffered a loss may have driven him to take his daughter. But all of his senses told him that Radcliffe was telling the truth. He was just grateful he had discovered this before things went any further. Red welts were beginning to come up on Radcliffe’s neck and Nick dropped his gaze to the floor.

‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Nick said, remembering Radcliffe’s whispers as he wrapped the cable around his neck. ‘There’s been enough loss. You’ve got to find a way of carrying on, because that’s what your family would have wanted.’

Radcliffe stared through deadened eyes. ‘I’m moving away when all this is dealt with. There’s no point in staying any more. The newspapers have taken care of that.’

Nick drained the last of his whisky and laid the glass on the fireplace. ‘But you can talk to the papers. We can sort this out.’

‘I don’t want to live here any more. Haven will be tainted by this forever. It’s why I moved away from my last address. It may have happened thousands of miles away, but their deaths might as well have been on my doorstep.’ Radcliffe sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s time I went back to my family and friends. At least they understand me there.’

Nick stared blindly at the floor, at a complete loss for what to say. He had a missing child. How do you comfort a man who has lost his entire family?

As if reading his mind, Radcliffe spoke. ‘I know you and Joanna have your ups and downs, but take my advice and keep her close. Be there for Olivia as a family. I used to row with Paula all the time. We argued the last time we spoke. What I’d give for one more day with her, just to say I’m sorry. I should have seen what was important, instead of staying behind for work.’

‘You probably wouldn’t be alive today if you had.’

‘Exactly,’ Radcliffe said.

Nick left the house with a heavy heart. How could he have gone so wrong? And who could he trust? So far, the only person that had been honest with him was DC Knight. He needed to get his life back on track. Then he needed to speak to Jennifer Knight.

N
ick’s disclosure
about visiting Radcliffe’s home was enough to make Jennifer squirt a double dose of hand sanitiser on the palms of her hands. It was frightening to think that DCI Anderson would go so far as to mislead the team. His insinuations about Radcliffe weren’t illegal, but it was certainly immoral in her eyes, and she wondered if he had been responsible for leaking the story of his arrest to the press. Twisting an investigation to get a result was relatively unknown in Haven, and she began to feel uncomfortable under his leadership.

She thought of Radcliffe, and the pain he must have endured to torture himself, creating painting after painting. It almost made her glad she didn’t have children. Her relationship with Will was moving at such a rapid pace it made her nervous. She wasn’t familiar with having such a steady, reliable influence in her life. She was used to making her own way, looking out for herself. Almost losing Will had frightened her to death. To leave herself open to such potential pain when she had already been through so much already . . . Splatters of rain began to fall on her hair and face, shaking her out of her thoughts.

That morning in briefing she had been met with with a cool reception by her colleagues as she protested Radcliffe’s innocence. She had been sharply put in her place by DCI Anderson telling her that Radcliffe was far from eliminated; that although his van had come back clean from forensics, it was just a setback in their line of investigation. She could tell by his disapproving tone that he would seek to have her removed from the family, if he hadn’t already. She blinked away the rain as her phone rang in her pocket. She could stay outside for a while. Nick’s parents returned with the local priest for more prayers, persistence apparently being one of their qualities. She was in no hurry to interrupt. Taking shelter in the cow shed, she took the call. It was DI Cole. She explained about Nick’s visit, without incriminating him. Radciffe’s motives for speaking to children were a lot less damning when his past was revealed. Ethan sighed, not sounding altogether surprised.

‘I’ve heard DCI Anderson can be creative with the truth. He’s already been on the phone. He wants you out of there, he thinks you’re doing more harm than good.’

Jennifer balled her fist. ‘If doing more harm than good means stopping an innocent man getting charged for murder, then I must be in the wrong job. Whose side are we on?’

‘That’s just it, though, isn’t it? He doesn’t believe Radcliffe is innocent. He’s currently organising searches for all the properties where Radcliffe’s worked. I’ve bought you another day. Break it to the family tomorrow. Anything could happen between now and then.’

‘Do you think it will?’

Jennifer listened to him suck on a cigarette and exhale the smoke. It was a private habit. She liked Ethan because he was guarded. Just like her.

‘You want my honest opinion? I think you’re our best hope. You’ve got to do as much as you can in the next twenty-four hours to find Abigail. DCI Anderson is gunning for you, Jennifer. The last thing I want is to see you transferred somewhere obscure for going against his wishes.’

‘You don’t think it will come to that, do you?’

‘I won’t let you go . . . not without a fight.’

It didn’t inspire her with confidence. But her job was the least of her worries. So far, her gut instincts had let her down. The search on Joanna’s father’s property had drawn a blank. So had her trip to the well. Even her communications with Olivia had dried up. But she wasn’t giving up. Twenty-four hours. That’s all the time she had left.

J
oanna couldn’t remember
the last time she had felt true solitude. Being alone in the house was a novelty. Olivia was in school, Fiona had gone to the shops, and Nick was God knows where.

S
he found
herself leaning against the cutlery drawer. It slid slowly on the rollers as it opened to reveal the knives Fiona used for chopping the ingredients for her wholesome stews. Beside them lay the boning knife, long, sharp and sleek, glinting in the soft afternoon sun. She imagined the cold steel smooth against her skin, cutting her flesh, the pain taking everything away. Olivia’s face appeared in her mind’s eye, and she slammed the door shut. Not today. She would not harm herself today. She needed to get outside; her thoughts were too big for the confines of the house.

Trees flanked her path as she walked the dried mud path that led to the river. The pure country air invaded her senses, and she raised her hand to swipe away a fly. A light breeze ruffled the leaves, producing a shushing sound, as if to ease the thoughts circling in her brain. Spring had finally arrived, and she welcomed the heat of the sun on her face. She rarely went for walks. To be truthful, she had never liked the countryside. When they first moved in, it was a novelty. Nick hired a JCB to tear down some of the more neglected outbuildings. He sat in the cab wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, his arms rippling as he controlled the machine. She had watched, mesmerised, as the powerful jaws butted the shed walls and they fell with ease as if they were made of cardboard. He shook the dust out of his hair and she followed him into the hay barn, teasing him until they had sex on top of the bales of straw. The smell of the straw tearing into her thighs was a bittersweet memory. It was the last time they had been intimate. He was slipping away from her, back to Matt. She could not let that happen.

Her ankle bent as she stumbled over a chunk of dried mud, disturbed from footsteps of previous searchers. She rubbed her heel, already reddening from the dusty patent shoes. Balancing on her toe, she shook out the crumbles of soil. Her perfume was sweet and flowery, and responsible for attracting the insects that were gathering around her head in a cloud. She hated insects, especially spiders. So did Abigail. When they first moved in, Nick would have to make a grand gesture of checking everywhere to ensure there were none lurking under her bed or over the wardrobe. Then Joanna would tuck her daughters in at night, closing her eyes as they pulled her in for a cuddle. Abigail was such a thoughtful child, presenting her with a newly plucked bouquet from the weeds that bordered the stone wall outside her home. She used to call dandelions ‘fluffy flowers’, and would pick them for her on the days she looked sad. They were kept in a jam jar on the window sill in the kitchen. The jam jar was always full.

Joanna’s breath shuddered and she realised she was crying. Then it occurred to her that she had every right to cry, so she allowed the tears to flow, releasing the tightness in her chest, which had grown to unbearable levels. She kept walking, the warm breeze cooling her tears as they dripped past her jawline. She walked until she didn’t know where she was any more.

She missed the city, the background hustle and bustle all hours of the day and night. She missed the scream of police sirens, the shouts of drunken revellers as they poured out of the clubs, and the refuse lorries at 6 a.m. as they reversed on the streets, the
beep beep
signalling dawn. At least there, she was never alone with her thoughts. She wondered for the hundredth time why she had to go and change everything. Coming back to Haven had been a mistake. She had hoped that Abigail’s disappearance would at least bring them closer together, but all it did was drive an even bigger wedge between them. If she had researched the internet, she would have discovered that most couples split up after the loss of a child.

The sweet tangy smell of rapeseed rose around her and she knew she had reached the outskirts of the river. No need to panic, she knew exactly where she was now. The path was still well trampled, and all she had to do was follow it back home. She wiped her face with her fingers, staining her thumbs with mascara. Poking her fingers in her pocket, she pulled out a tissue to blow her nose. It occurred to her that the person fronting the hate campaign could be watching her right now. Any moment they would reach out and touch her. They could carry out their threat to hurt her, and there would be nobody to hear her scream. She imagined a hooded figure jumping from the bushes and pinning her to the hard dusty ground. His breath coming fast and thick, carrying a sour smell. Alcohol perhaps, or cannabis. Strong hands punching her in the face, tugging at her clothes. She would let them. She wouldn’t put up a fight because, as they said, it was all she deserved. She would lay there, lifeless, until they had finished with her, and later on she would stagger home, limping and bleeding to . . . to what? A cold reception. Because nobody would believe her. They would probably think she had punched herself, or torn her own clothes. She had cried wolf before. There was no reason to think she wouldn’t do it again. But what if she persisted? Gave a statement to the police? Published her story? Would she get some sympathy then? Her mind raced through the possibilities. Evidence. They would need evidence of an attack. Bruising. Bleeding. No. That would not do at all. The shriek of a woodland creature made her jump in her skin, and she spun on her feet, picking her way through the path, half trotting, half running home. Just what was wrong with her? Cold fear stabbed her heart. Her mind was unravelling, and there was nothing she could do about it.