‘It’s the doll that I bought for my baby girl.’
‘It has blue eyes,’ Marilyn said, thinking of the doll Roger had found hidden at the back of Carolynn’s wardrobe. Perhaps someone sent it to her, Jessie had said.
‘All white babies have blue eyes. I wanted its eyes to match my baby’s – the colour they were when she was born, at least. I don’t know what colour they’ve turned now, cos I never got the chance to find out, did I? I wanted that fucking bitch cow woman to take it, give it to my baby’s adoptive parents, so she’d have something to remember me by. But the bitch just tossed it in the bin without even looking at it. Right in front of me, she threw it in the bin, like it was worthless. Like I was worthless.’
‘Did you send Carolynn a doll?’
‘Yeah. When I saw her on Witterings beach, six or seven months ago, and recognized her. I followed her home. I bought a doll and laid it on her doorstep one night. I wanted to frighten her, let her know that her daughter’s murderer was watching her.’
She jutted her chin and gave Marilyn her best Teflon smile, but her heart wasn’t in it because her soft, violet-blue eyes remained fathomlessly sad.
He didn’t know what he had expected to see in them: hardness, defiance, satisfaction, rage that she had been caught. But there was none of that.
A few years ago, he’d been called to the site of an accident on the A27, a lorryload of lambs destined for the slaughterhouse that had run off the road and overturned. The sound of the trapped lambs bleating for help had been horrendous. But worse was the look in the eyes of the lambs who were still alive when, hours later, they were finally cut free from the mangled lorry and herded straight into an identical lorry bound for the same slaughterhouse. He could have sworn then that they were fully sentient beings who knew that all they had survived was for nothing. He’d never been able to eat lamb since. Ruby had that same look in her eyes. That same hunted, haunted, hopeless surrender.
And yet there was no excuse for what she had done. The hurt and devastation that she had caused. The lives she had destroyed. She had murdered two little girls, cut short two innocent lives, and there could never be any excuse for that.
Pulling handcuffs from his suit pocket, Marilyn stepped forward.
‘Ruby Lovatt, I’m arresting you for the murders of Zoe Reynolds and Jodie Trigg. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence …’
89
‘It means so much to me that you want to be my friend, Jessie. You’re the only person who hasn’t shied away, betrayed me,’ Carolynn said, as Jessie led her upstairs.
The photograph of her and Callan was missing from her bedside table Jessie noticed when she entered her bedroom, and the duvet was flattened on her side of the bed, a head-shaped indent on her pillow. It made her sick to think of Carolynn lying there, imagining – what? Imagining being friends with her, or of being her. Stepping seamlessly into her life, living in her house, wearing her clothes and make-up, sharing a bed with Callan.
A hand on her arm and she jumped. ‘You’re the only person who understands me, Jessie.’
I don’t understand you at all, she wanted to scream, even though it’s my job to do so. I failed miserably. Instead, she smiled and nodded, going through the motions, buying time, feeling like a bit-part actor in a bizarre horror film trying to second-guess the insane vagaries of the lead.
In the bathroom, she pulled open the cabinet. Her make-up bag, little more than wallet-sized, was where she’d left it, but the zip wasn’t fully fastened. Next to the make-up bag was her nail kit. She glanced quickly over her shoulder. Carolynn was looking in the mirror, rubbing a fingertip under her eye to erase a smudge of mascara. Shifting so that her back blocked Carolynn’s view, Jessie palmed her nail scissors into the pocket of her dress. It made her feel infinitesimally more secure to be armed, even with blades so tiny and blunt. Turning, she handed Carolynn her make-up bag.
‘There’s not much in it.’
‘I know. Remember, I’ve already used it. I put it back as you left it though.’ She tilted her head and smiled. ‘Because I understand you, Jessie, and I know that it matters.’
Jessie couldn’t force a smile in response. She was feeling sick again – sick and dizzy. The baby. She hadn’t eaten today, she realized, would have to start being more sensible, taking care of herself and her tiny charge. Sitting down on the edge of the bath, she watched Carolynn arranging the contents of her make-up bag on to the white quartz countertop by the sink. A couple of tubes of foundation in medium-beige and natural-tan – bought on a whim after she’d decided that she was sick of spending 365 days of the year resembling a ghost, but never used – and an eyeshadow palette in five shades of blue; black mascara, pink blusher and a few lipsticks. She knew she should engage Carolynn in conversation, disarm her, but she felt almost as if she was floating above herself, watching this crazy charade from somewhere otherworldly, no sentient body, no mind, no voice.
‘You’re beautiful, Carolynn,’ she managed. ‘If you could make me look as good as you, I’d be happy.’
The harsh overhead bathroom lights stripped the gloss from everything, lighting the downy hair on Carolynn’s face – a symptom of malnutrition
