The Night Away: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 11

  ‘That’s because she’s the only witness. So far anyway.’

  George clears his throat. ‘What if – I know this is going to sound dreadful, but hear me out – what if there was an accident?’

  Amber’s blood chills. ‘What do you mean? What sort of accident?’

  ‘You know what Ruby’s like; she doesn’t concentrate, she forgets things … What if there was an accident and – well – Mabel got hurt. Badly. Like she suffocated or fell and hit her head. I’m not saying it was deliberate, but what if Ruby accidentally—’

  ‘No … no … don’t. Stop it, I won’t hear it.’

  He grasps her hands and takes them away from her ears. ‘She could have hidden Mabel somewhere and then pretended she’d been abducted.’

  Amber swallows hard. ‘That’s a disgusting thing to say. Why on earth would she do that?’

  ‘Easy. She was afraid to admit what had happened because she knew we’d never forgive her.’

  ‘No … that’s … that’s not what happened.’

  ‘You said yourself she was always breaking things and lied to cover it up.’

  ‘When she was a kid, yes, but not now.’ A memory flashes before her – Mum in tears because her cut-glass vase, an anniversary present from their father, had mysteriously disappeared. She called the girls downstairs, demanding explanations, although she knew full well that Amber wasn’t involved. Ruby hotly denied she’d broken the vase. She claimed she’d seen a burglar climbing out of the window with it under his arm – she was so convincing, Mum nearly called the police. But Amber knew her sister had been practising acrobatics in the sitting room earlier. She searched Ruby’s bedroom and found the broken pieces of glass wrapped in newspaper hidden under the bed.

  ‘Do you think I should mention it to the police?’ George says.

  ‘I expect they’ve already thought of it.’ Amber looks down at her fingers, twisting in her lap. ‘Sally said they consider every possibility, no matter how unlikely. And they will definitely have interviewed Ruby by now.’

  ‘Yeah, but they don’t know what she’s like.’

  Amber bristles. ‘She’s not a murderer, George. She’s just a bit … ditzy.’

  ‘I said it was an accident. She panicked, didn’t know what to do. Mabel was—’

  ‘Don’t talk about her as if she’s dead.’

  ‘I’m not, I’m just trying to work it out. The police aren’t stupid; they know Ruby’s story doesn’t add up.’

  ‘I still can’t believe my own sister would do something so appalling just to save her own skin.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she?’ presses George. ‘You don’t know that for sure. You’ve no idea what she’d do when pushed to extremes … I’m going to tell DI Benedict tomorrow. He needs to know.’

  When she wakes, Amber is lying fully clothed on top of the bed. She has no memory of climbing the stairs and going into the bedroom. How long was she asleep? Minutes? Hours? She should have fought back the yawns, propped her eyes open with matchsticks. She promised she would stay awake until there was news, and she’s fallen at the first hurdle.

  Mabel is missing. Still missing. The realisation jolts through her like an electric shock. She will never get used to this. Every morning, she’ll feel her guts tearing apart again. Every evening, the day’s hope will be flushed away in fresh tears. This is why she mustn’t sleep – the agony of waking and experiencing it all again, day after day, will be too much to bear.

  Turning over, she sees George lying next to her. He’s on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘You’re awake too,’ he says.

  The room is dressed in greys. It feels like neither night nor morning. ‘What time is it?’

  He picks up his phone and checks. ‘Half five.’

  A lump rises in her throat. That’s the time Mabel usually wakes. She chokes as she remembers how she used to moan about those early mornings, being dragged from deepest sleep by the gurgling baby monitor. How sometimes she would bury her head beneath the pillow and wait until the sounds grew louder and more insistent before going downstairs to Mabel. It was a terrible mistake to have the nursery on the floor below, to put so much faith in a baby monitor. If – when – Mabel comes back, she’ll let her sleep in their bed every night, snuggled safely between them.

  Tears drip down her face. Is there no end to the constant stream of guilt she’s pouring over herself? She will drown in it.

  A new day is dawning. Monday, day two of life without Mabel. The second of how many? she wonders. She imagines time stretching before her, days becoming weeks, months, then years. The relentless pain of not knowing whether her daughter is alive or dead. No news is good news, that’s what her mother keeps saying, but she can’t find any comfort in the tired old adage.

  Maybe George is right and there was an accident. She should talk to Ruby, have it out face to face. If she looks her straight in the eyes, she’ll know whether she’s lying. Or her mother will – she knows Ruby best.

  George sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He rubs his eyes and runs his fingers roughly through his hair. It takes a great effort for him to stand, and when he gets to his feet, he sways for a few seconds before finding his balance. He’s broken, she thinks, watching as he puts on the previous day’s socks, shirt and smart trousers. All he has with him are work clothes. Sally said they could give her a list of what they wanted from the flat and somebody would bring it over. But Amber couldn’t think of anything. Mabel. That’s all she wants. Mabel.

  ‘Tea?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, if you like.’ She sits up. ‘Don’t bring it up. I’ll come down with you, see what’s happening.’

  ‘Nothing’s happening,’ he says. ‘Everyone else is asleep.’

  The doorbell rings at 7 a.m. sharp. George goes to answer it, with Amber close behind. He opens the door to find Sally standing on the step. ‘Have they found her?’ he says anxiously.

  Sally gives him an encouraging smile. ‘Not yet. The searches resumed at dawn. First forensic results should be back later today.’ She enters, shutting the door behind her. ‘How are you both?’

  George shrugs. ‘What do you think?’

  Amber’s mum comes down the stairs, also still wearing yesterday’s clothes. ‘Well? Any news?’ Her voice cracks with hope. They all shake their heads.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea, Mrs Evans?’ Sally asks, taking off her coat and hanging it in the coat cupboard, like she knows where everything goes.

  ‘Call me Vicky,’ Mum replies. ‘Toast and marmalade all round?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ says George.

  ‘How can you even think of eating at a time like this?’ Amber looks at them accusingly.

  ‘It’s just a bit of toast, babe. You should try and eat too.’

  Mum nods. ‘Keep your strength up.’

  ‘If you say that again, I’m going to scream!’

  There’s an awkward pause. Mum disappears into the kitchen. Sally suggests that the three of them have a chat, and leads them into the lounge. Amber curses herself as she sits on the sofa. She shouldn’t have snapped like that.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just – you know – the stress.’

  ‘All perfectly normal,’ Sally replies. ‘Now … to update you. I’m afraid the whole thing has exploded on social media. There are some awful stories circulating on Twitter, some very, um … harsh comments. I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do to stop it. It happens every time there’s a case like this.’

  George clasps Amber’s hand. ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Just the usual nasty stuff. Really, you don’t want to know. I’d strongly advise you not to go online, and definitely not to respond.’ She shudders. ‘Some people are disgusting. My boss wanted to wait until we had a clearer picture before doing a press conference, but there’s no choice now. We need to take control of the media flow before it gets out of hand.’

  ‘Surely the soo
ner people know Mabel’s missing, the better,’ says George. ‘Witnesses might come forward. Somebody might know where she is, they might have seen her. It can’t be easy to hide a baby.’

  ‘It depends on the circumstances. Every situation is different and requires a different approach. This case is …’ Sally struggles for the word, ‘unusual. We have to tread very carefully so as not to panic the person who has your daughter. Getting Mabel back safe and well is the number one priority. It dictates everything we do.’

  ‘So you think she’s alive?’ says Amber.

  ‘So far, we’ve no reason to think otherwise. Our hope is that whoever has got her is looking after her, caring for her. We don’t want to do anything that might jeopardise that. At the same time, we’re keeping our minds open. Following every lead, no matter how small.’

  Amber nods. ‘I understand.’

  ‘What about Ruby?’ says George. ‘She’s been questioned, presumably.’

  Sally swings her head round to look at him. ‘Yes, we’ve been talking a lot to Ruby,’ she replies evenly. ‘She was the last person to see Mabel, which makes her a significant witness.’

  George huffs. ‘Too right. So what did you guys think? Is she telling the truth?’

  There’s a pause. Amber can almost hear Sally’s antennae buzzing. It’s scaring her.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’ Sally says, training her gaze on them. ‘Is there some reason you think she might be lying?’

  Amber doesn’t know what to think. Has her sister changed, or can she still not be trusted? She closes her eyes and sees pieces of shattered glass.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Day Two with Mabel

  I lean over the side of the cot and gently stroke Mabel’s cheek. She has fallen asleep at last, poor darling. No wonder she’s fretful. She’s in strange surroundings with only my unfamiliar self to care for her, but I’ll give her lots of care and in time she’ll settle down and learn to love me. She’ll be far happier here in the country. I hated her being cooped up in that tiny flat, with no garden and all that London pollution. The air is fresh here and the landscape is far prettier than Lilac Park.

  ‘We’re safe here, my darling,’ I whisper. ‘Nobody will find us.’

  The afternoon sun is streaming through the window and shining on her face. I walk over to the window and draw the heavy floral curtains, then tiptoe from the room. There’s no need for a baby monitor here. Everything is on the one level and my bedroom is right next door. She will never be more than a few feet from my side.

  I feel drained, fatigued by the frantic planning as much as the execution. I found it hard to drop off last night; my brain was buzzing and I had backache from the long drive. My sleep was fitful and light – one ear always listening out for Mabel in case she woke. But miraculously she slept through until 6 a.m.

  We had a lovely morning pottering around, getting to know our new home. I showed her all the rooms and took her briefly into the garden, although we didn’t stay there long because it was so chilly. The back lawn is very overgrown, the grass tufted with dandelions. In a few weeks they will turn to seed fairies and we can have fun blowing them apart.

  I let out a yawn and rub my eyes. I would love a nap, but I can’t afford it. I must use the time when Mabel sleeps productively, because when she’s awake, she must have my undivided attention.

  My first job is to clean the kitchen units properly. The surfaces are dusty and the insides of the cabinets are greasy and smell stale. Don’t want nasty germs in the house, giving Mabel an upset tummy. Bending down, I open the cupboard beneath the sink. There is a bottle of bleach, some old-fashioned scouring powder, plenty of cloths and a pair of yellow rubber gloves. As I run a bucket of hot water, I send a heavenly thank you to Great-Aunt Dolly, who lived here on her own until she died eighteen months ago.

  Dolly, or Dorothy to give her proper name, was a primary school teacher, wedded to her vocation rather than to any man. I only knew her by reputation – according to my grandmother, she was opinionated and cared little for her appearance. I think I met her at a family wedding once when I was a child, but that was it. She led a solitary life. Not having any family of her own, she left the house to me in her will, with the rest of her estate going to an educational charity for girls in Africa. Frankly, I was surprised she knew I existed.

  When I was told that I’d inherited Midsummer Cottage, I pictured a thatched roof, oak beams and roses around the door. Excited and intrigued, I hurried down to Dorset immediately. I was greeted by a single-storey rectangular building rendered in grubby white concrete. The outer walls were streaked with green mildew and the window frames had rotted. It looked more like a scout hut than somebody’s home.

  Inside, the decor was more cottage-like: dark wooden furniture, heavy brocade curtains, patterned carpets (different in every room), tapestry cushions (probably stitched by Dolly’s own hand), cheap china ornaments on the heavy sideboard, and on the walls a collection of horse brasses and several paintings of dogs. It had a certain fusty charm, but none of it was to my taste. It was what an estate agent would call ‘a project’.

  I started to fantasise about refurbishing the place from top to bottom, or even pulling the bungalow down and rebuilding from scratch. It was all part of my fairy-tale vision of the future. Midsummer Cottage would make a wonderful holiday home for the family I was planning. Our children would run wild and free, we’d teach them the names of birds and flowers and trees, we’d take them fishing in the stream and build campfires in the garden. Then we’d be happy.

  At that time, we were still together and the relationship, whilst up and down, was going through a good patch. We stole a weekend away to inspect the place. Rather than book into some boutique hotel, as was our usual habit, we decided to camp out in the cottage, just for the fun of it. We would embrace the hideous decor, dingy lighting, dodgy boiler, rattling windows and broken oven; even the toilet that took about ten minutes to refill. Everything was uncomfortable and inconvenient, but it was fun, and a relief not to have internet access, a landline or even a reliable mobile signal. Nobody could hassle us or pin down our location. It was the perfect romantic hiding place.

  I can see us now, standing in the poky lounge that first evening, opening a bottle of champagne and filling two of Dolly’s sherry glasses to the brim. We couldn’t find more suitable glasses and had to constantly top up. I arranged a platter of antipasti bought from the luxury deli in London – sourdough bread, farmer’s pâté, sweet roasted peppers, Serrano ham, giant green olives, fresh anchovies sprinkled with garlic. We covered the horrendous carpet with an Indian throw and picnicked by candlelight.

  Later, we decamped drunkenly to the bedroom and snuggled beneath Dolly’s satin eiderdown, which smelt of mothballs and lavender water. We bounced around on the creaky springs and made sweet, sweet love, while the rain splashed over the broken guttering and the wind whistled down the chimney.

  When everything went so horribly wrong, I lost interest in Midsummer Cottage. I almost lost interest in living at all. Submerged in grief, I forgot the place existed – or pretended to forget. There were delays with probate, but I stopped chasing the solicitor. I couldn’t bear to visit the place because the memories were too painful. Let it rot, I thought, just as my life is rotting. But now I see that it was all meant to be. Dolly’s gift is far more important than I or she could have imagined.

  I dry the inside of the cupboards with paper towels, then put the shopping away. When the food runs out, I will buy fruit and veg from roadside stalls, paying in cash, using honesty boxes when I can. Longer-term, I will dig up the garden and grow my own. The days will become longer and warmer, the earth will soften. All I need is a few seeds. When Mabel learns to walk, she can help me with the weeding. I’ll plant sunflowers and she can watch them grow up the side of the house.

  She’s stirring. I can hear her kicking her legs against the mattress and cooing to herself. Time for her afternoon feed. I put a pan of water on the hob to heat
her bottle, then go into her room.

  ‘Hello, my lovely,’ I say, picking her up. She throws her head back and gives me a strange look. She doesn’t recognise me yet, but she will.

  ‘Did you have a nice sleep in your new travel cot? I’ll buy you a proper one eventually, don’t worry. Now, let’s go into the kitchen and get your bottle, eh? And if you’re a good girl, you can have something yummy to eat.’

  I put her in the high chair, propping her up with one of Great-Aunt Dolly’s smaller tapestry cushions. She drinks her milk enthusiastically. Then I open a jar of organic apple puree and spoon it into her mouth. She grimaces and pokes out her tongue to expel it. I try an oatcake next, which she eats with relish. So hard to know her likes and dislikes, but I’ll learn.

  After she’s eaten, I clean her up and take her into the sitting room. The throw I used for our romantic picnic is still here, draped over the end of the sofa. I shake it out and lay it on the carpet, just like before, then sit cross-legged with Mabel tucked into the well of my lap.

  ‘Your pretty face is probably all over the internet by now,’ I say to her. ‘You’re going to be famous.’ She makes a few jawing noises, as if she’s trying to reply. ‘You might even be on the news. Shall we see?’ I switch on Great-Aunt Dolly’s television. It’s about a quarter of the size of the one I used to have and by the look of it doesn’t even have Freeview. It’s too early for the news, so I turn it straight off again.

  Mabel does some sitting-up practice – I’m surprised she’s not completely supporting herself by now – and then I roll her onto her tummy. She doesn’t like it one bit and arches her back defiantly.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but if you won’t lie on your front, you’ll never learn to crawl.’ She gives me a very straight look, as if to say, What do you know? Laughing, I pick her up and give her a cuddle, tickling her until she breaks out in giggles. Her fat cheeks turn rosy pink and she dribbles spittle down her chin.