Unlike Jessie, Carolynn had been able to run and hide, and she’d done just that. Who could blame her? Certainly not a girl who’d been persecuted herself. Persecuted for having done no wrong, for having been a victim. She would have hidden, run, when she was fifteen, if she’d had the chance, but she’d had to stick it out, add the mental scars of bullying and social isolation to the scars of her brother’s suicide, her mother’s abandonment, her father’s betrayal, layer upon layer of psychological damage, like rock strata laid down in her psyche. The outward sign, her OCD and the electric suit that she could feel now skittering across her skin, a tightness around her throat that was labouring her breathing as she walked.
A sudden noise, alien against the repetitive, soothing sound of the lapping waves. Pulling her mobile from her pocket, she glanced down at the name flashing on the screen. Callan. She was tempted not to answer it. She didn’t want to argue with him again, and thoughts of Carolynn, of her own past, had put her on edge. It would be easier to just not answer than to have a conversation where she loaded his innocent remarks with a negative essence that they didn’t have. As she dithered, her phone went silent. Decision made.
Twenty seconds later, it rang again. Perhaps something was wrong?
‘Callan.’
‘Good afternoon, beautiful Jessie Flynn.’ He sounded happy, though she sensed that his mood was forced for her benefit, that he was making a conscious effort to start the conversation off on a good footing. ‘… mum just called.’
‘Your mum?’
‘No – yours. She’s arranged a new time for the dress fitting. Monday at ten.’
‘Oh, OK. That’s fine. Tell her that’s fine.’
‘I already told her it’s fine. She said to tell you that you can’t miss it.’
‘I won’t miss it.’ She ducked, as a squawking seagull swooped low over her head. Did they like shiny, or was that just magpies?
Silence on the other end of the telephone line.
‘Callan?’
No response. Had she accidentally cut him off while ducking?
‘Callan? Are you there?’
‘Did you find her?’
‘Who? My mum?’
‘No, Jessie not your mum.’
‘Who, then?’
An exasperated sigh. ‘Laura … Carolynn … whatever the hell the woman’s name is.’
Oh shit. Was he just fishing? Could she bluff it out?
‘Have you gone mad, Callan?’ she said, dodging sideways as the seagull swooped again.
‘Wind, waves, seagull. I am a detective and it wasn’t the hardest case I’ve ever worked on.’
She could picture his jaw set into an intractable square, the cynicism in his amber eyes.
‘OK, clever boy. Yes, I’m at the beach.’
‘Which beach?’
‘East Wittering.’
‘Is that where Laura’s hiding from her adoring public and the law?’
‘Carolynn. It’s Carolynn. And we’ve been through this, Callan. She was acquitted.’
‘Yeah, we have been through this. She was acquitted due to lack of evidence. As I said before, it’s not the same thing as being found innocent. Marilyn believes that she’s guilty.’
‘I don’t believe that Marilyn is or was objective.’
‘He’s a great detective.’
‘He is a great detective, but he’s not infallible—’
‘None of us are infallible, Jessie.’
She ignored the inference, ploughed on: ‘—and the murder of a child is highly emotive. As time went on in the Zoe Reynolds case, he must have felt under huge pressure to nail someone for her murder – anyone.’
She started walking again, just beyond the reach of the waves, her feet making perfect imprints in the wet sand, a barefoot chain where she had walked strung out behind her like a memory.
‘So she’s living in East Wittering?’
‘Bracklesham Bay. It’s the same patch of picturesque British seaside urban sprawl, but half a kilometre east along the beach.’
‘And you’ve met her, spoken with her?’
‘I had lunch with her. Or at least, I had lunch and she sat there watching me eat. She doesn’t seem to “do” eating.’
‘Is she going to contact Marilyn?’
‘I asked her to contact him and she said that she would.’
‘She’s already proved herself to be a pathological liar.’
‘She had reasons to lie. Good reasons.’
‘So you trust her? You trust her to get in touch with Marilyn?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Callan, I’m not a bloody mind reader. Get off my case.’
The white triangle of a yacht’s sail, breaking the thin blue line of the horizon where sea met sky, caught Jessie’s eye, the cloudy slash of a plane’s contrail, heading out across the Atlantic Ocean, above it. People holidaying. Life continuing as normal.
‘I’m sure you told me once that you didn’t work with people who lied,’ Callan said, breaking the silence. She heard the smile in his voice, a forced smile, but even so, she recognized that he was making an effort to lighten the moment, pull back from the argument they were careering towards.
‘And you said that I work with people who lie all the time: patients. And she is my patient—’ Jessie broke off. ‘Was, actually. She said, at lunch, that she doesn’t feel she needs any more sessions.’
‘So you no longer have an issue with patient confidentiality.’
‘I’m not dobbing her in, Callan. Patient confidentiality aside, that would be a horrendous breach of her trust.’
‘This isn’t a game, Jessie.’
‘I’m not treating it as a game.’
‘For Christ’s sake, you could be sheltering a child murderer. Actually, let me correct that statement: a double child murderer.’
‘She’s innocent.’
‘Jesus, listen to yourself. You’re sounding as subjective as you’re accusing Marilyn of being.’ She heard the choppy, tense sound of his breathing. ‘And you’re worrying me, Jessie.’
‘Worrying you? You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, not my babysitter.’
‘If you don’t want a babysitter, don’t behave like a baby,’ he snapped.
Her thumb found the phone symbol, cutting him off. She stared at the blank phone in her hand for a few moments, half-willing it to ring again, not knowing how she’d react if it did. It didn’t ring. Bastard. Turning away from the water, she retraced her steps to where the steep pebbly section of the beach met the sand and slumped down, her bottom on the warm, dry stones,
