The Silent Twin (6 page)

J
ennifer focused
on her superior’s words as the car ambled up the drive. Their departure from the house wasn’t to inspect the gate which had been disturbed, but to impart some vital information.

‘We’re interested in Charles Radcliffe. I believe he’s been helping them renovate the house since they moved in.’

Jennifer took a subtle intake of breath. It felt icy cold. ‘Yes, that’s right, although he seems to be avoiding me. Is there evidence against him?’

‘None yet, but he’s got previous. A common assault offence from when he was a minor, and some recent intelligence reports about him approaching children in the area. He’s been spoken to informally, but we’re monitoring his movements to see if he’ll lead us anywhere.’

Jennifer’s stomach churned at the thought. Approaching children may have been a confidence builder, leading up to something bigger. She paused, reluctant to release the words hanging on her tongue. ‘Do you think Abigail’s dead?’

DCI Anderson sighed. ‘I sincerely hope not. But if we’re looking for a murder suspect, I don’t think we’ll need to look far.’

A cold chill ran down Jennifer’s back. The locals of Haven had seen many things since the decline of their town, but child abduction and murder was unthinkable. ‘I’m surprised there haven’t been more locals searching the area,’ she said, staring out the window at the barren lands.

‘There were, but we’ve appealed to them to call off the searches as they were hampering the investigation. They’re looking for a live child. What they don’t realise is that we are looking for evidence. Of course we want to find her alive, but we’re realistic about it. And if you have any concerns for Olivia’s welfare, I want you to call it in. I’d rather see her placed into temporary care than have her put at risk.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jennifer said, although she hoped it would not come to that. ‘So do you have any special instructions with regards Radcliffe?’

‘Don’t breathe a word of our suspicions to anybody. If a family member disappears, make a note of it. Be discreet, but keep an eye on them. They may just lead us to Abigail. Of course, if Joanna wants to make an unscheduled public appearance then dissuade her. I don’t want her opening her mouth at the press appeal today, we’ll leave that side of it to Nick. And for God’s sake make sure she’s not sitting there grinning like a fool. We desperately need to claw back some public sympathy.’

But Jennifer was already thinking ahead. ‘I have an idea that may help to get Olivia talking.’ She explained about the child’s love of horses, and her aunt Laura’s stables. She knew without asking that Laura would only be too happy to show Olivia and her mother around. It would give her precious time together with Olivia and hopefully help her get closer to Joanna too.

DCI Anderson gave it three seconds of consideration before responding. ‘I’ll authorise that. If this continues we’ll be bringing in a child psychiatrist, but I think it would be good to get them away from the house. Just clear it with your aunt and whatever you do, don’t have the child galloping about, the last thing we need is her getting hurt.’ The DCI reached for his seatbelt and drew it across his chest. It clicked into place, signalling the end of their conversation. ‘DI Cole will update you on briefing. I expect you to have something to share with us soon.’

Jennifer nodded, hoping it would be the case.

‘Off you go,’ he said dismissively.

Jennifer nodded, briefly casting a glance over Will before exiting the car. Radcliffe’s possible involvement put a whole new spin on things. She needed to find out what the family thought of him, and if they suspected anything. Her head was buzzing with possibilities.

She glanced down at the tasking sheet her DCI had given her, as she walked back towards the house. Some of the questions were very personal, and would need to be handled with a great deal of sensitivity. Jennifer held tight to the paper as the wind tried to snatch it from her grasp. Thank God for computers, she thought, preferring the neatly typed list to the pages of scrawl she received in the past. There was nothing on the list that she had not already expected. She needed to question the family further on possible suspects, whether they could think of anyone acting suspiciously, or if there was anyone they had suddenly stopped hearing from. If so, a full statement would have to be taken. She needed to record what they were wearing on the day of their child’s disappearance, and their exact whereabouts. Video footage of Abigail would have to be requested. Despite her young age, she had to ask if Abigail had a boyfriend, a bank account, and if any of her belongings had gone missing. The officer filling out the missing person enquiries would have already covered questions such as what she last ate, her doctor and dentist’s details, what she was wearing and her favourite places, to name a few. Not all parents realised that the question regarding the last meal was to cover the eventuality of a post mortem later on. But Nick would. Jennifer’s questioning would focus on the family, listing immediate and extended family on both sides. Radcliffe was currently a person of interest, but a shady past did not necessarily mean he was responsible for Abigail’s disappearance. Public opinion seemed focused on blaming Joanna. But blinkered vision was bad for the case.

Jennifer returned to the house feeling the weight of responsibility. If the press appeal went wrong, it could damage the investigation, delaying Abigail’s return. And the blame would lie solely at her feet. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to draw on her skills and attempt communication with Abigail.

A
n impromptu prayer
session was something Jennifer was loath to interrupt, and having already made Nick’s parents’ acquaintance, she was keen to avoid their company. Bob and Wendy made no secret of their religious beliefs, although little was said about their errant daughter, Nick’s sister. She was proving hard to pin down, and part of Jennifer’s role was to complete a family tree, tracing the family history of the parties involved.

Slipping into the empty living room, Jennifer closed the door behind her and took a seat beside the unused fireplace. This was where the tray had flipped up, spilling its contents on the floor, and the room where Sue had reported some activity. It was time for Jennifer to tune in, and seek Abigail’s presence. She would always put regular police work first, but right now the investigation needed every bit of help it could get.

Given that paranormal investigation was part of her Operation Moonlight remit, she felt compelled to attempt communication. She powered up the police laptop and watched the egg timer making up its mind as it flickered on the screen. It was only a matter of time before Fiona knocked on the door offering tea, and she could not afford to waste another second.

Laying the computer to one side, she tried to relax in the creaky wingback chair. Despite the large window, the room was dark and dreary, and held a strong echo of the past. Jennifer glanced up at the high ceilings and mould-stained covings. The cobwebs that Fiona had dusted away had made a reappearance, and Jennifer shuddered to think how big the spider would have had to have been, to cover half the ceiling so quickly.

It was a large room, and perhaps Joanna had seen potential when they had bought the property, but to Jennifer the atmosphere was so oppressive she may as well have been in a darkened cupboard. Forcing all thoughts of dust and spiders away, she closed her eyes, and her lids flickered a couple of times before finally giving in to her intentions. Taking a few deep breaths, she allowed herself to become immersed in the house, soaking in the energies past and present. She felt herself fall, deep into the past, until she was surrounded by sounds of life; the crackling of a fire, the clatter of busy footsteps. The dull
tick tock
of a grandfather clock kept time in the hall, and the smell of paraffin lingered as the rustling of petticoats swept across the floor. In the distance, someone was coughing. A child. Jennifer absorbed their symptoms, feeling a hot flush across her brow. There was fever in this house. Jennifer took a deep breath. She had gone too far, allowing the ghosts of the past to drag her into their story. ‘No,’ she said, quietly. ‘I need present times.’ A cold hand of regret brushed against her cheek, and then they were gone. Jennifer gasped, blinking the experience away, like wispy cobwebs on her skin. Many children had died in this home, due to a plague, or fever of some kind. They were taken with such ferocity that some occupants still remained in spirit. But their fate was not connected to this case. She had to move on. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and waited. A floorboard creaked from underneath her feet as the darkness closed in. Whispers grew, scratching noises like rats’ claws tapped along the floorboards. They were drawing near. A noxious smell rose in the ether. Gone was the soft glow of a paraffin lamp. The only light rose and flickered from the fireplace, where a boiling pot produced the stench of rotten meat. Jennifer wanted to put her hand to her nose, but to do so would bring her to the present. Steadily she breathed, focusing on the whispers growing around her as the room darkened from behind her eyelids. This was not a welcoming energy.

‘Leeeeave,’ a deep disembodied voice drawled. ‘Be gone, all of you.’ It sounded like a recording being played back on slow, and impossible to tell if it were male or female, or even human at all.

‘Where is Abigail?’ Jennifer asked, remaining steadfast.

A low moan was followed by a growl, a presence casting a shadow over her closed eyes. A darkness enveloped her, and the rotting smell grew, forcing Jennifer to break contact. She fought to shake off the presence, like a heavy coat of tar crusting on her back and shoulders. Whatever it was, it had no interest in helping the family, but fed off their discord.

She opened her eyes, rubbing her arms as she grounded herself. If Abigail had passed on, it was too soon for contact to be made, and the dark, thick energy that claimed ownership of the house was too strong to allow anything else through. Jennifer shook off the remnants of its presence.

‘Leave this family be,’ she whispered. ‘They’ve been through enough.’

But she had closed the door to communication. She picked up her computer and powered up her emails. It was time to contact Zoe and see what secrets she had uncovered on the history of Blackwater farm.

J
oanna lay
back on the bed and inspected the cracks in the ceiling. Her bedroom was her refuge, the confines of the four walls keeping a lid on her emotions. But at night, four walls became five, when her husband slept with his back to her, flinching if she touched him in the night. As if she was something bad. Something dirty. She thought of another ceiling, with polystyrene tiles and yellowed walls. Where nobody could hear you scream. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she was back there . . . back with the hailstones tapping their icy fingers on the window, and the acrid chemical smell that enveloped her every cell.

The heavy thump of the front door made her jolt, and she gripped the duvet, gasping for breath. She had been falling, deep into a nightmare. She couldn’t push away the army of thoughts invading her brain. Not without help. Alighting from her bed, she sat in front of her vanity table, plucking the clots of mascara knitted between her eyelashes. Her reflection stared at her in triplicate, and she practised her smile.
Be strong. You can do this.
The voice whispered inside her head. Her voice. It was the only one she should be listening to. Her fingers wrapped around her bracelet and pulled as far as the band of elastic would allow. It was a cheap piece, picked up in Spitalfields market. She had told Fiona she bought it because the bright beads matched her outfit. The truth was, it was a prop to clear the fog in her head. Her heart flickered as she released the tension. It snapped hard against her narrow wrist, and she gasped in satisfaction at the sudden sting of pain. Her reset button was switched, and she was back in control.

T
he wardrobe door
creaked on its hinges as she rifled through her clothes. Just what did you wear to a press conference? Nick’s shirts dangled on wire next to her dresses on their pretty padded hangers. She held his shirtsleeve to her cheek. It smelt of fabric conditioner. Fiona had ironed it far better than she ever could.

The last time Nick had worn the shirt was at a dinner party, when he had introduced himself as her long-suffering husband. It had started out as a joke, but after a few years of marriage the words were delivered with an ugly edge that only she could hear. People would laugh, saying he had the perfect family; a beautiful wife, two children, and a career in the police. Nick would raise his glass and smile, toasting his good fortune.

Joanna dropped the sleeve, trying to understand why her husband had grown to despise her so much. Perhaps despise was too strong a word. At best he tolerated her. At worst . . . he frightened her. She had gone over it so many times in her head. She had rushed him into marriage, just like she had railroaded him into having children. But he could have said no, he could have changed his mind. He was a police sergeant, and it wasn’t as if she was holding a gun to his head.

She looked beyond the vanity table to the window, where a gentle breeze billowed against the nets. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the smell of the countryside. Abigail was out there. Her baby. Joanna’s hand dropped to her stomach, where she bore the faded stretch marks of her twin pregnancy. And now the police were invading her house, with their constant questions and buzzing radios, issuing press releases for her child’s safe return. But Joanna knew from their guarded expressions they didn’t believe that would happen. A vision of Abigail rose in her mind, the edges soft and blurry. She was just a little girl, who couldn’t sleep without a glass of milk before bedtime. She called a hug a ‘huggle’, and had a cute way of mispronouncing her words. And she was oh, so beautiful, the brighter spark of the two. Pure and innocent, she didn’t understand the concept of stranger danger, because she saw the good in everyone. Particularly in people that didn’t deserve it. ‘God help me,’ Joanna groaned, her chest tightening as a cold flood of dread spread throughout her senses. It brought with it crushing physical pain, and she caught her breath to accommodate it. Abigail, her marriage, everything was crumbling. Her world was crashing down around her and there was nothing she could do about it. Her breathing quickened as the onset of a panic attack threatened to overtake her. She stretched the bracelet back, further than the elastic would allow, and it snapped hard against her wrist. Coloured beads spilled on the floor as it broke, and Joanna gratefully lost herself in the distraction.