‘Carla could have caught up with them,’ Amy agreed. ‘Then been pushed over the edge.’ It was an unpleasant thought, but more believable than her killing herself on the same night the place was broken into.
‘Carla’s goodbye text muddied the waters,’ Donovan replied. ‘But anyone could have sent that. Her voicemail changes everything. They’ll come around.’
‘They’ll have to,’ Amy replied. ‘And we’ll need to gather any available CCTV.’ They had yet to establish a link between Carla’s death and the spate of seaside suicides, but they could not rule out a connection at this early stage.
The jingle of a bell stopped them in their tracks as the white and blue tourist train cut in front of them. Amy waited for it to rattle past, wishing she had brought her sunglasses as the temperature rose. She shielded her eyes as she glanced at the entrance to the pier.
‘They jemmied their way in here,’ Donovan replied, showing her the point of entry. Holidaymakers and tourists bustled past, more interested in entertaining their children than with what had occurred days before. Police had been under pressure to release the scene quickly and had done a stellar job. As the boards creaked underfoot, Amy forgot that Paddy, Molly, Gary and Steve were trailing in her wake. Looking beyond the crowds, she imagined the pier quiet and still. In her mind, the music was silenced, the air carrying nothing but the crash of waves and Carla’s footsteps.
‘She told her husband she was meeting a teenager,’ Donovan said, as he relayed what they knew so far. ‘But why lie about having backup?’
‘To stop him worrying about her,’ Amy said, familiar with the motivations of a lone wolf. She stepped aside as a group of excited children raced towards the bumper cars. The tantalising smell of candyfloss lingered. Amy cast her gaze over the queue outside the ticket booth as the speakers blared novelty tunes on a loop. When Carla was here, these machines would have been silent, the moon illuminating her path.
As Amy walked past the hot dog and doughnut stands, she was met with a bracing wind rolling across the North Sea. She imagined the sting of the breeze as Carla continued to the end of the pier. Was she walking or running? Hesitant or forthright? Who was the teenager she had agreed to meet? The case was a jigsaw puzzle missing too many pieces to provide answers just yet.
They weaved past tourists, remaining silent as they processed the scene. The wind was stronger down the end of the pier and the flock of tourists had thinned. Amy clamped a hand on her hair to stop it flying into her face as they approached the railing. The sea was vast and murky, with wind turbines breaking the skyline.
Donovan pointed to a building in the distance, resting his other hand on the fence. ‘See that brick building? It’s a block of flats. One of the tenants was looking through a telescope when he saw Carla bobbing about in the water.’
Amy frowned. ‘What was he using a telescope for at that hour of the night?’
‘Said he couldn’t sleep,’ Donovan replied. ‘At first, he thought she was a seal. When he realised otherwise, he called it in.’
‘Did he see anyone else?’
Donovan shook his head. ‘But to be fair, he wasn’t looking. As soon as he saw Carla was in trouble, he called the coastguards.’
Amy looked out at the sea, sensing Carla’s vulnerability as she edged towards the railing. Donovan had already told her that Carla wasn’t the best of swimmers. Her clothes would have weighed her down. She could imagine the pounding of her heart as she was forced to the edge. Had she cried out? Fought for her life?
Silence passed as the purpose of the visit was served.
‘C’mon,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘We don’t want them thinking we’re not pulling our weight.’ They had barely been gone an hour, but Amy was desperate to return. She had put herself at the scene, but had she been correct in her estimations? Whatever it took, she would find out what really went down.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MO
‘I hated school with a passion.’ Mo picked her thumbnail as she reclined in the therapist’s chair. She had been dreading her visit all week. But she had made a pact with herself: to understand what she had become. Why didn’t she feel that what she had done was wrong? Society stated that murder was evil. Did that really make her a monster? If killing another person was so against the so-called moral code, then why did it feel so good? The bottles in her Tesco’s bag clinked as she nudged them with her foot. There was a four-pack of Kopparberg fruity ciders, a variety of chocolate bars and twenty cigarettes. Proper ones, not the roll-ups she could only usually afford. A treat to get her through what lay ahead. ‘You’d think that school would have been a retreat,’ she said, breaking her past down into manageable chunks. ‘Hot meals, a rest from Mum pecking my head . . . but it was just another place I was made to feel like scum.’
‘Lizzie Hall?’ the therapist guessed correctly. Mo twirled her hair, the name invoking a frown. Without a cigarette to hold, it was impossible to keep her hands still.
‘Her . . . and others. “Puddles”, they called me . . . because I supposedly wet myself in school.’ She frowned at the injustice of it all. ‘But none of it was true. Lizzie poured some of her juice onto a plastic chair before I sat on it. When I stood, there was a damp patch on the back of my pinafore. I remember her screaming with laughter, making sure everyone could hear. Nobody would sit next to me after that.’
The therapist’s face was impassive. No doubt a long-practised art of keeping her emotions
