The Silent Twin (7 page)

T
he press appeal passed
without event, and Jennifer could at least breathe a sigh of relief that Joanna had left the talking to her husband. Her expressionless gaze was an improvement on the smile she had worn during her last interview, and Jennifer wondered if she was thinking of Abigail, or the vicious online hate campaign launched against her. Apart from some probing questions about how Joanna was feeling, the press conference focused on Abigail’s disappearance, rather than the gaudy headlines published in the local rag. Jennifer watched from the sidelines as Nick sweated under the glare of the lamps, flashbulbs popping, choking on his words. He took Joanna’s hand and squeezed, a small show of support, which elicited a flurry of camera flashes. Jennifer felt a ripple of sympathy for them both, as they sat under the microscope. But she couldn’t help but feel that Abigail deserved better. Thoughts of the little girl made her heart wrench, and it had taken all her strength to focus on the investigation and not go searching herself. She slid her phone from her pocket, checking Twitter as the press conference wrapped up. Most of the #FindAbigail tweets were pointing the finger at Joanna. Their farmhouse address had become a tightly guarded secret, and police were able to intercept the hate mail making its way to their townhouse in Haven. Jennifer hoped the press conference would go some small way towards repairing the damage done by Joanna’s previous flippancy. It seemed crazy, all the focus on Joanna’s personality rather than her missing child.

As Joanna and Nick returned home, Jennifer stayed on for another round of police briefing. But by the time she saw them off, she had missed the first ten minutes.

Sliding in between the bodies standing at the back of the conference room, relief washed over her as she discovered that DCI Anderson was not leading the briefing, DI Ethan Cole was. His accent, a mixture of American and British, had never been more welcome as she tried to squeeze in without being noticed. DCI Anderson must have been asked to cover the murder that had just been reported in Lexton. A gang-related stabbing over territory, it was part of the unrelenting drug-related crime wave flooding the area. Not that she would have any involvement. It was good to have a break from that side of things, and investigate crimes where her real talents lay. She was pinning a lot of hopes on being able to speak to Olivia after briefing, and being able to encourage her to release the secrets she so tightly concealed.

The stark white projection screen complemented DI Cole’s honeyed skin as he brought them up to speed on the investigation to date. He was easier on the eye than DCI Anderson, and a lot more impassioned.

‘The diving team will be searching the river Blakewater, although there are no leads to indicate we’re going to find anything in the water. Additionally, we’ve been scouring the land surrounding the farm and, as many of you are aware, numerous items have been seized. Now I know some of you think we’re just collecting litter, but I
must
impress the importance of early evidence. Abigail is nine years old. You may have children of your own, nieces, nephews, neighbours.’ Ethan gesticulated, his hands conducting his words. ‘Keep them in mind as you search for this little girl. She could be lying somewhere, cold, vulnerable and alone. Or maybe we’re already too late. And if this is the case then we must catch the person responsible, before they strike again. If it means going over the same patch of land three or four times, then so be it. We’re leaving no stone unturned.’ He paused to take a sip from a bottle of Evian.

‘Hundreds of items have been seized, from sweet wrappers, to scraps of fabric and discarded chewing gum, but the only one directly tied to Abigail is her glasses. We cannot get complacent. We must continue to bag up anything we feel may be of relevance, until we can determine if there is any connection to the case.’

He clicked the screen to a map of Haven. ‘Right, moving on. The key area is where she disappeared, but I also want the Community Support Officers to concentrate their efforts on the local community. That involves the continuation of house to house enquiries in both the town and rural areas.’ He paused to regain eye contact with the uniformed officers. ‘You may be the person in the community that finds answers. Speak to holidaymakers, dog walkers, joggers, kids down the skate park. Don’t forget the risk assessments, folks. Haven has its moments, particularly in the more isolated spots. We don’t want you encountering any angry farmers with guns, or amorous bulls.’

Jennifer rubbed the back of her neck as an ache developed. What she really needed was a strong cup of coffee with two large sugars. Her mouth felt as dry as a sand pit, and she forced herself to concentrate on the tasking and updates Ethan relayed. Footprints and car-tyre print analysis had taken place on the well-trodden land, the usual checks had been made with local hospitals, and visits to the local sex offenders by the public protection team were underway. CCTV was under review in the town, and ANPR – the automatic licence plate notification system – was being matched up with the intelligence system to see if there were any vehicles of note entering or leaving on the day of Abigail’s disappearance. There seemed to be no end to the enquiries, and forty minutes after she entered the room Jennifer was beginning to flag. She shifted from foot to foot, wondering if anyone would notice if she dropped a few inches and slipped her feet from her shoes.

She had just wriggled her feet in preparation for escape when she found all eyes on her. Her update was requested, and she relayed her notes, wishing she had more information to impart. ‘I believe Abigail’s twin, Olivia, may be key to the investigation. She has what’s often termed as “selective mutism” since the disappearance of her sister, and as we know, she was the last person to see Abigail alive. I’m beginning to bond with her and I hope she’ll open up to me soon. The difficulty is getting her alone, but I hope to overcome that today as I’ve organised a trip out. Sanctioned by DCI Anderson, of course.’

‘Thank you,’ Ethan said. ‘What do we know about extended family?’

‘Nick’s parents have been spending a lot of time at the farm, and they live relatively nearby. They have a good relationship with the family. Joanna’s relations are more of a mystery, and I’ve not yet made their acquaintance. Her mother passed away years ago, and she and her father are estranged. For the last few years he’s been living in a local care home. A couple of weeks ago he had a stroke, and he remains critically ill in hospital. Joanna’s got a housekeeper that she heavily relies on, but her only network of friends seem to be online.’

‘That’s something for you to get your teeth into, then,’ Ethan said, turning back to the board. Jennifer made some notes as he ran through a section of calls that had come in since the press appeal. After a round of questions and answers, he finally called it a day.

Jennifer was pleased Ethan had called her into his office, as he strode into the room. She liked spending time there, away from the chaos of the regular office, with its strewn coffee-ringed files, over-stuffed bins, and jammed shredders. The filing system in her DI’s office was organised with military precision, the chairs were comfortable, and she was pleased to see the percolator had been replenished as the welcome smell of recently ground coffee hung in the air.

‘Sorry I was late, boss,’ she said, gratefully taking the cup of Columbian roast from his outstretched hands.

‘No problem. The DCI asked me to jump in at the last minute. It’s not my remit, to be honest, but given your involvement in the case I couldn’t say no. How are things going from an Op Moonlight perspective? Have you picked anything up since we spoke last night?’

So this is why he called me over, Jennifer thought, to ask the questions that couldn’t be discussed in regular briefing, or ‘vanilla briefing’ as Will called it.

‘It’s very early days. I’ve only been there a few hours,’ she said, wrapping her fingers around the glass cup, embracing its warmth. ‘The house holds a lot of history, and there’s plenty of spirit attachments, but I don’t know . . . I don’t think her disappearance has much to do with the building itself. I think the family are key.’

Ethan nodded. ‘It’s difficult with Nick being a fellow copper, isn’t it? But you’ve got to put that aside for now. Tell me, what’s your gut feeling? Using your insight, do you think Abigail is still alive?’

Jennifer sighed, wishing her answer was yes. ‘There was something. When I was in the house, I thought I heard the voice of a little girl, asking why we hadn’t found her yet. It seemed to come from very far away, which would suggest she has passed on. But it’s not cut and dried. Something thoughts can transmit to me if I have a connection, or have a conduit . . .’

Jennifer’s eyes widened.

‘Maybe that’s it.’

‘What?’ Ethan said.

‘Olivia was standing behind me at the time. Perhaps she’s a conduit to her twin.’

‘In that case, I suggest you get back there. Take her out as planned and see what you can find out.’

Jennifer wasted no time in finishing her coffee and getting back to the farm. Right now, Olivia was their only hope of speaking to Abigail.

I
t seems ironic that now
, when I am finally rid of my old life, I am trapped by the prison of my mind. For all the years I dreamt of being free, I never imagined that I would spend every day tortured by the past. Back then, everything I did revolved around the weight of the depression. These days, I kid myself that I’m normal but I know that, deep down, something is terribly wrong. It’s as if a part of my memory has been disassembled and put back incorrectly. For now, I can only go with my instinct, because I don’t know what normal is.

I visited Abigail today. I had to see her, just one more time. She was lying there, caked in mud, her blonde hair hanging in dirty strings on her face. I can still see her dead-eyed stare. It’s engraved on the back of my eyelids when I close my eyes. I tell myself it’s not my fault, but her presence bothers me. I think about moving her. It’s unsettling, her being so near the farm.

I
t’s
bad enough that her face is all over the newspapers and online. And as for the phone calls –
RING RING RING
they torture my brain, making me rake my skin with my nails until they draw blood. The scratches invoke memories of my childhood, and the whole cycle begins again.

I
t wasn’t just
my self-harming that made me different to the other children – I positively reeked of desperation. Never, in the whole of my sorry life, had I one person I could truly call a friend. I hung around limply, straggling behind the other kids, thinking that a pity friend was better than no friend at all. But they didn’t want some fat kid in secondhand clothes embarrassing them, and I was soon told where to go.

Everything changed at my ninth birthday party, when I suffered the acute embarrassment of being the butt of their jokes. My mother decided to hold a party in my honour, and I was thrilled that so many people came. I thought perhaps it was a turning point, and I gratefully tore through the presents. I got one of those fat Bic multi-pens, and someone even gave me a Rubik’s Cube. Not that I could ever get the better of it. But my joy was short-lived as my mother left us to buy some more crisps.

For some reason they thought that bringing me plates of leftover cake was funny.
One more slice, one more slice
, they chanted, stopping only when I had scoffed the lot, my salty tears intermingling with spoonfuls of sticky butter icing as they shovelled it down my throat. I told myself that being the centre of attention was fun. But all I felt was shame and disgust.

That’s when my father walked in. He found me in the bathroom, crying. I felt physically sick as I retched into the bowl. But no, my body decided to work against me, holding on to the fats and carbohydrates to pile on even more weight than before. Food brought me comfort and pain in equal measures. Yet here was a man I trusted, telling me not to cry, because I was perfect just the way I was. It made me feel grown up to call him by his first name. That’s when he said I should have my photo taken. I snorted, waiting for the punch line. He went as far as listing my redeeming features: my striking eyes, my healthy complexion, and my shiny hair that carried many hues. Like petals of a flower opening for the sun, I bloomed under the glow of his praise. He cast all my self-aspersions aside. I was a perfect model, he said,
because
I was different from the others, not in spite of it. I wanted to believe him, because he described me as if I was something special, something good. So I smiled. The kind of foolish, fragile smiles that predators love.

T
he timing could not have been
better as Jennifer offered to take Olivia to Laura’s stables for a treat. Joanna’s fresh coat of make-up did not disguise the fact that the press appeal had taken its toll, and cracks were finally starting to appear. Jennifer hoped that time away from the gloomy house would draw Olivia out of herself long enough to find some answers. She also wanted to help the little girl, who was at risk of being traumatised by the whole awful situation.

Joanna marvelled at Laura’s home. Like hers, it was set on several acres of land, but no renovations were needed for this country abode. Unlike the shadowy dampness of Blackwater farm, Laura’s house was bright and airy, each room as large as Joanna’s but tastefully decorated with country charm. Paintings of thoroughbreds lined the walls, alongside pictures of Jennifer and her sister Amy growing up. Daily housekeepers ensured the house was clean, even to Jennifer’s standards, and the grounds that housed the stables were beautifully maintained. Jennifer had nothing but fond memories of growing up in her aunt’s care, and was happy to show Olivia around the paddock.

‘This is Toby,’ Jennifer said, introducing the thirteen-hands pony. ‘My sister Amy used to ride him in pony club. He’s retired now, but he still loves to be taken out for a jaunt. Would you like a ride?’

Olivia’s face lit up for the first time, then clouded over as she gazed at her mother for permission. Joanna hesitated, and Laura intervened.

‘He’s very well behaved, and he loves children.’

Joanna nodded and Laura gently steered her inside to sample the scones she had made that afternoon. Jennifer sighed with relief, and patted Toby on the neck before tying him up next to some steps.

‘C’mon then, Olivia, let’s get this hat on,’ she said, adjusting the straps around her cheeks.

Olivia beamed in response, her eyes resting on the pony before her. Jennifer pointed out all the parts of the saddle and bridle. She used to watch her sister clean the tack at night, the room smelling of aniseed oil and leather. It was an improvement on the beer-and-cigarette smell that had tainted their childhood when their father had been in charge. They had gone from having absolutely nothing to having everything, and even now, Jennifer wasn’t sure if she had ever fully adjusted to it.

‘Are you ready?’ Jennifer asked. Olivia nodded more times than she needed to, and tentatively placed a hand on the pony’s rounded belly. ‘Good. Just climb up these steps and hold on to the saddle. Toby will take good care of you.’

But the little girl’s excitement evaporated as her eyes misted over, their spirit withdrawing into itself. Jennifer felt the change in the air, and time seemed to stand still. She knelt down, touching Olivia’s hand. Her skin was deathly cold, and her chest rose and fell in an effort to breathe.

Jennifer had seen it before, when her nephew Joshua had allowed himself to be used as a transmitter for voices on the other side.

‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ she said, afraid to break the spell.

Olivia stared into nothingness, her hands hanging numbly by her side. ‘It’s cold here. It’s cold and dark and I want to go home.’ Her voice was hollow, as if coming from very far away.

Jennifer’s heart skipped a beat. But she couldn’t jump to conclusions. Children were highly suggestible and the last thing she wanted was to put words into the girl’s mouth. ‘Don’t be scared, Olivia, it’s just the stables. It’s not dark, not really.’

But the child stood frozen to the spot. ‘I’m not Olivia. I’m Abigail. I don’t like it here. It’s dark and I can’t see.’

Jennifer crouched until she was eye-level. There was no time to wonder if Abigail was really coming through. Such links were tenuous, and very short-lived. ‘Abigail? Describe it for me. Where are you?’ Jennifer whispered, praying for something, anything that would provide her with a clue.

‘I’m in a d . . . dark tunnel. With a l . . . light at the end.’ Olivia’s face screwed up and she shuddered a tearless sob. She was a puppet, and the ventriloquist controlling her was crying. ‘Somebody’s at the other end, but I . . . I don’t want to go with them, I’m
scared.
I want to go home.’

There was no time for platitudes. Jennifer needed answers.

‘Did someone take you? Are you lost?’

But as Olivia took a sudden breath and blinked, Jennifer knew that contact with Abigail had broken. It was as if she had emerged from underwater, and she took a few more breaths before returning her attention to the pony.

‘Are you okay?’ Jennifer asked.

Olivia nodded, climbing the steps to mount. Jennifer could not ignore the sense of unease creeping up on her. There was change ahead. She could feel it in the air. She had watched her nephew emerge from the same type of trance, and his was not the only case. He had also returned to normality quickly, with no desire to discuss what had happened moments before. She wondered if it was because the children had no recollection, or because it was such an unpleasant experience. It didn’t matter. There would be more to come.

Jennifer helped her into the saddle, adjusting the stirrups before leading the pony forward. She glanced up at Olivia’s face, alight with happiness. A different child, she was pink-cheeked and smiling with delight. Olivia clicked her tongue, coaxing the pony to walk a little faster across the neatly clipped lawn. Normally the horses would be ridden in the fields at the rear of the stable, but Jennifer had already gained permission to ride on the lawn, within sight of the house.

Jennifer tried gently to question Olivia on what had just happened, but even in her silence she seemed to have no recollection of the words. Had she really spoken to Abigail? And if so, did it mean Abigail had crossed over from the other side? A dark tunnel, seeing a light, someone waiting on the other side. It had all the hallmarks of a death experience. Or was Olivia trying to communicate her secrets in the only way she could think of? Pretending to be her sister in order to get the message across? Jennifer let go of the bridle, allowing Olivia more control. The pony chewed on the bit between his teeth, plodding contentedly beside her. As she had discovered in her own childhood, animals had an ability to heal, just by their presence. She took a note from Toby, and stayed quiet for the remainder of their session.

‘
D
id you have a good time
, darling?’ Joanna asked as she joined them.

Olivia nodded, flashing a toothy smile as she dismounted.

Joanna returned her smile. ‘That’s wonderful. Guess what? Laura and I have been talking. She’s going to loan us Toby, once we fix up a stable for him. Would you like that?’

Olivia emitted a gasp of delight, nodding until her over-sized riding hat peaked on her nose. Joanna hugged her daughter tightly, tears prickling her eyes as she mouthed the words
thank you
over her shoulder. The sight of real emotion crossing Joanna’s face, combined with Olivia’s excitement, brought a lump to Jennifer’s throat, and she wrestled with her conscience for not disclosing that Olivia had spoken earlier that day.

Jennifer soaped her hands in the kitchen sink as she mulled over Olivia’s words. Working in Operation Moonlight was a huge step forward, and she would be able to disclose full details of the case without fear of ridicule. She dried her hands and gave them a squirt of sanitiser for good measure. Aunt Laura would not allow Jennifer to leave without sampling her homemade scones, and she sat on the patio with a pot of tea brewing in a china teapot. Laura showed Olivia how to groom Toby, before releasing him into the field. She had come up trumps this time, giving Jennifer alone time with both Olivia and Joanna without making it obvious that this was her intention all along. Jennifer tucked in to the scone, allowing the homemade jam and clotted cream to intermingle on her tongue. She washed it down with sip of tea before patting the corners of her mouth.

‘They’re lovely scones, aren’t they?’ Joanna said. ‘Even nicer than Fiona’s.’

‘Don’t let Fiona hear you say that,’ Jennifer smiled. ‘Do you bake at all?’

‘Oh no, I’m not allowed,’ Joanna said, blushing as soon as the words had left her mouth. ‘I . . . I mean, I don’t need to, not with Fiona on the payroll.’

‘Joanna, may I be frank with you?’

Joanna sighed, her eyes never leaving her daughter. ‘Of course.’

‘You’ve never once asked me about the investigation into Abigail’s disappearance. Is it because it’s too painful to think about?’

Joanna shrugged, toying with a length of her hair, twirling the blonde strands around her finger.

But Jennifer was not ready to give up yet. ‘Some people deal with stress by keeping it pushed down. You could call it a coping mechanism.’ Jennifer pressed down on the loose crumbs of scone with the pads of her fingers and placed them on the saucer. ‘I think it’s a perfectly understandable way of dealing with things. I’ve done it myself.’

‘I wish Nick did,’ Joanna said. ‘He knew what I was like when he met me, so why should I be any different now?’ She looked at Jennifer, a wealth of longing behind her cool eyes. ‘But how can I change? It’s just the way I am.’

She finished the sentence with her usual smile, and Jennifer understood. She thought of her own past, the childhood she repressed for so many years.

‘I don’t get why you were so flippant in the interview, though. Why would you act like Abigail doesn’t matter, when inside you’re falling apart?’

Joanna didn’t reply straight away. She returned her gaze to Olivia, watching as she groomed the pony’s mane. Jennifer had given up hope for an answer when Joanna eventually replied.

‘It’s hard to explain, but . . . sometimes I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth.’

Jennifer nodded, allowing the silence to fall between them as she composed her words.

‘Sometimes people say things they don’t really mean. It’s like they want to be punished, but they don’t know why,’ she said, feeling more like a therapist than a police officer.

Joanna rubbed her wrists, as if she was searching for something that was no longer there. ‘Oh, listen to me, talking about myself. It’s nothing really, I’m fine.’

‘But you’re
not
fine, are you, Joanna? Have you thought about getting help?’

A pained expression crossed Joanna’s face, as if she had sat on something dirty, and she jumped up from the chair, clapping her hands together. ‘Olivia, are you all done now? We’d better get home. Daddy will be wondering where we’ve got to.’

Jennifer bit back her frustration. Nick was well aware of where they were, and had told them to take their time. Joanna turned to face her. ‘Oh, and thank you. You didn’t have to do this. I feel like I’m getting my little girl back.’

But what about your other daughter? Jennifer thought, as she nodded in response. She swallowed back the words, too judgemental to say aloud. Nick’s aggression towards his wife was inexcusable, but she could see how Joanna’s lack of sensitivity would ignite the flame. Why did she use memory repression as a coping mechanism? That, paired with the possibility she was punishing herself, could suggest there was something very wrong. It would take time to find answers, and time was a luxury they could ill afford.

O
livia beamed
as her mother recounted the arrangements she had made for borrowing the pony. It was a one-way discussion, but the journey home was filled with hope: Olivia’s message was a breakthrough, and Jennifer clung on to the belief that there would be more to come.

She drove on autopilot down the pot-holed country lane, inhaling the sweet smell of the rapeseed as it drifted through the car window. The fields lit up the landscape in patches of vibrant yellow, but their beauty was lost on the occupants of the car. Jennifer’s mind was crowded with thoughts. The fact that tomorrow would be the second day following Abigail’s disappearance weighed heavy, and even the farmhouse seemed to have slumped since she last left it. Olivia’s stolen whispers replayed in her mind.
Somebody’s at the other end, but I . . . I don’t want to go with them, I’m scared.
Where could Abigail be? Sue had reported footsteps on the landing and a smashed light bulb. She had heard the tray hit the floor. Was the spirit of Abigail making her presence known? Or was this activity caused by human hands? The spirits invading the home carried a strong negative energy, amplifying the family’s discord. It seemed likely that they were at the root of the activity. Her email to Zoe was yet to be answered, as her colleague dug deeper into the history of the house.

Sinister intentions appeared far from Joanna’s mind as she knocked on the door, and breezily called that she was home.

‘Don’t you have a key to the front door?’ Jennifer said, scraping the mud from her shoes.

Joanna shrugged, evading the question as she slipped past Fiona, who allowed them inside. Nick was slouched on the leather sofa, too exhausted to respond. His boots are wet with mud, and his hands scratched from searching thickets. The group of volunteers was growing by the day, meeting in Haven to search woodlands, sheds, crops, ditches and dykes. It was good to get the search underway while hope was still alive, but well-meaning locals were trampling all over what could be valuable evidence. Spent cigarette butts thrown in the woods. Discarded chewing gum wrappers. All transient evidence. Its worth minimal unless found on the body.
The body.
Jennifer caught her thoughts. She was imagining Abigail as deceased. The words that had escaped Olivia’s lips were similar to the ones she had heard so many times in the still of the night, when the whispers of the dead were at their strongest; spirits trapped in a cold, dark place, wanting to come home. Tortured souls looking for answers that weren’t hers to give. She squirted alcohol gel on her hands, the scent a soothing balm as old anxieties fought to rise within her. She wanted to go home, to the clean, cool worktops of her kitchen and the spotless floors. Where everything was level, organised and regimented.

F
iona placed
a tray of salad sandwiches and a pot of tea in front of them, urging Nick to eat.