Pulling the sleeve of her dressing gown over her hand, Jessie rubbed at the ring Callan’s cup had left on the spotless wood.
‘Even if they’re not related, this child’s death will break open all the old wounds,’ she said, looking up. ‘Laura— Carolynn, whatever the hell her bloody name is, will be splashed across the front pages, forced back into everyone’s consciousness to be the victim of that “no smoke without fire” speculation all over again. The stares, the gossip, the snide behind-hand remarks, the pushing and shoving in the supermarket, the Internet trolling – it will start all over again.’
‘Perhaps there isn’t smoke without fire. All those old sayings come from somewhere.’
Jessie rolled her eyes. ‘From the mouths of idiots.’
Callan gave a wry smile. ‘Thanks.’
Jessie sighed. ‘Can you really not see why she went to ground?’
‘Of course I can. But that doesn’t detract from the fact that she may be a child killer. She may be dangerous and I don’t want you to put yourself – or anyone else – at risk.’
Jessie bit her lip, didn’t answer. She felt as angry as he did and she felt right. Righteous anger, a powerful force.
‘Ever since you were invalided out of the army, you’ve had your finger firmly on the self-destruct button,’ Callan muttered.
‘Self-destruct button? What the hell are you talking about?’
He sighed. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t.’
But she did know what he meant. She just couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t help that mean new alien streak that made her feel as if she didn’t care about anything or anyone – with the exception of Callan and Ahmose, her elderly next-door neighbour who was more family to her now than her actual family – and least of all herself. Couldn’t help that her OCD, which she had worked hard to control until her army career was ruined, had resurged with a vengeance, and was now spinning out of control.
Digging her top teeth into her bottom lip, tasting the copper tang of blood, Jessie focused hard on the television. She could butt against Callan all day, argue, get nowhere, but what was the point? She had already made her decision. Hooking a leg over Callan’s thighs, she swivelled around and slid on to his knee, facing him.
‘I love you,’ she said, stroking her hands down his bare chest to his stomach.
She planted a soft kiss on his lips. He tasted of coffee and warmth and for a brief, intense moment she would have given anything to be back in bed with him, making love. But she needed to get going. Shuffling backwards, off Callan’s knee and the sofa, she stood.
‘I need to go to work, unfortunately.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Jessie.’ His gaze was interrogative. She held it steadily.
‘I won’t. I promise.’
And she would keep that promise. However, his definition of stupid was probably very different from hers.
14
The little girl’s murder was already front-page news. It screamed at Carolynn from every paper on the rack displayed inside the sliding double doors of the Co-op and Tesco Metro, from the newsagent’s window, from newspapers folded in shopping bags or tucked under the arms of everyone she passed on Cakeham Road. Eight a.m., a balmy feel to the morning and the East Wittering village centre was bustling, locals and tourists shocked out of bed early by news of the child murder, locked in tight knots, talking in hushed, funereal tones. Carolynn forced herself to walk slowly, leisurely, as if she was no different from anyone else here, fight-or-flight tension locked in every one of her twitching muscles.
Zoe’s murder had precipitated the same news frenzy: a crowd of journalists outside the police station, camera flashes blinding her as she was taken in from the beach to be swabbed down and interviewed; as she was driven to the Old Bailey eleven months later in the blue police van, photographers standing on tiptoes and thrusting their cameras up to the tiny, blacked-out bulletproof windows set high in its walls, hoping to snatch a shot of her, handcuffed and cowering, her life over so many times by then that she didn’t know which way was up and which down. Inconceivable nightmares yet to come.
Everyone was talking about the girl’s death: How was she killed? Who could have done it? Was this death linked to the murder of that other poor little girl, two years ago? What was her name?
Zoe, Carolynn wanted to scream. Zoe Reynolds. My daughter, Zoe. Not just that other child. That other poor little dead girl.
Information, opinion, gossip leaked from every huddle she passed. How could a child have been killed in broad daylight on a family beach? What had she been doing out there alone anyway? Where was her mother when she was being butchered?
An elderly couple were sitting on the bench at the bus stop, heads dipped to the paper spread between them. Carolynn inched closer, ears straining to decipher their murmurs.
‘The mother has finally come forward,’ she heard the man say. Come forward into her own personal nightmare.
‘How could a mother allow such a thing to happen to her own daughter?’ the woman snapped. ‘Why wasn’t she there to protect her? Only nine or ten and out on the beach on her own to be murdered, poor little mite.’
A chill gripped Carolynn and she swayed, snatching at the back of the bench for support. The couple’s heads whipped around as her shadow loomed over them, and Carolynn saw the surprise on their faces, surprise that morphed to concern when they saw how pale she was.
How could a mother allow such a thing to happen to her own daughter? Why wasn’t she there to protect her?
She had heard the same, over and over. The antipathy she had felt towards Zoe, her postnatal depression, twisted by
