‘Were there any signs of a break-in?’

Alison pressed her lips tight and frowned. ‘No, but the front door was unlocked, they could have just walked in.’

‘And why would a stranger do that?’

‘How should I know? Jack is a police officer, maybe some maniac criminal had it in for him.’

‘And what about Sam?’

‘What about him?’

‘Why do you think he’s been missing for two days?’

Alison’s head went down. ‘I don’t know. He’s my little boy and I don’t know where he is.’ She was almost crying. ‘Maybe he saw something and got scared. I just want him to come home. Where’s he been since Monday?’

‘He told me he was sleeping rough.’

‘Whereabouts?’

Ellie shook her head. ‘He didn’t say.’

‘Does he have his phone? I’ve tried it a hundred times. Why doesn’t he answer? Why would he speak to you and not me?’

‘Maybe because I’m a stranger. Maybe there’s stuff at home he can’t face.’

Alison wiped at her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘How’s Libby?’

Alison stared at her hands.

‘I came here yesterday to see her,’ Ellie said. ‘Did you realise that?’

Alison pulled a hand over her face, rubbed at her skin.

‘Sam asked me to check on her,’ Ellie continued. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he cares about his little sister.’

Ellie looked round the room, at the doorway. ‘Maybe he thinks she’s in danger here.’

Alison stood up, her hands balled tight. ‘What are you getting at? Why would Libby be in danger?’

Ellie stayed in her seat. ‘You tell me.’

Alison took a step forward. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

‘Then you’re not going to hear from Sam again.’

Alison hesitated.

Ellie nodded at the sofa. ‘Sit down.’

Alison obliged.

Ellie played with the wedding ring on her finger.

‘Sam told me about something that happened here, in this house. Your home. Libby told me as well.’

Alison frowned. ‘When did you speak to Libby?’

Ellie ignored the question. ‘Do you know what I’m talking about?’

Alison shook her head.

‘Try harder,’ Ellie said.

‘I can’t,’ Alison said. Her hand gripped the arm of the sofa.

Ellie sighed and looked at the family photos on the mantelpiece. ‘I understand what it’s like, that feeling of the kids getting away from you. Trust me, I know. One day they’re toddlers following you from room to room, asking for snacks or needing their noses wiped. The next minute they’re monosyllabic zombies, locked away in their rooms, faces buried in their phones. Then the next moment they’re gone.’

She stopped, regained her composure.

‘But how could you not know?’ she said.

Alison shook her head but didn’t speak.

‘How could you not know?’ Ellie repeated.

Alison’s eyes were wet. ‘Know what?’ she whispered.

Ellie felt her heart in her chest, a trapped animal. ‘That your husband is abusing your daughter, right here under your roof.’

Alison’s eyes widened. ‘No.’

Ellie nodded. ‘Upstairs, in her bedroom.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Alison said.

‘He goes into her room and plays with her until he gets hard, then he makes her suck his cock.’

Alison shot out the sofa. ‘How dare you . . .’

Ellie cut her off. ‘He’s been doing it for years. When you’re out, when he’s alone in the house with her. How does that make you feel?’

‘Get out,’ Alison shouted. ‘Get out of my fucking house.’

‘Are you proud of your good policeman husband now?’

‘I said get out. Now.’

‘Standing by your man, that’s nice.’

‘He would never do anything like that,’ Alison said, voice shaky. ‘My Jack would never harm a hair on Libby’s head.’

‘Ask him.’

‘I don’t need to ask him, I know.’

‘Ask Libby,’ Ellie said.

‘You’re sick,’ Alison said. ‘That’s what this is. You’ve seen our story on the news, you’ve somehow found out about my kids, and you’ve come here and made all this up for attention. Get the hell out of my house, I’m calling the police.’

‘Just ask Libby.’

‘Get out.’

Alison came towards Ellie, reached for her arm but Ellie shrugged her off. She stood looking at Alison, staring at her.

‘Get out,’ Alison said again.

‘I’m going.’ Ellie walked out the room to the front door, opened it, Alison behind her.

Ellie turned before she took a step outside.

‘Open your eyes, Alison,’ she said. ‘Before it’s too late.’

25

She ran. She had no idea where she was going, just wanted to get away, feel her feet pounding on the concrete, her body moving away from Inchcolm Terrace and Alison, from confrontation, away from Sam and Libby and the mess she was involved in.

She ran so she didn’t have to think, her body took over, she had to concentrate on breathing, the molecules going in and out of her mouth, her bloodstream, her pulse pumping energy from her heart through her stomach to her legs. She ran to feel the rhythm of it, settled into the thud, thud of her heels on the ground. She was wearing the wrong shoes, casual trainers, and the wrong clothes, clinging to her as she began to work up a sweat, but she didn’t care, she just kept on.

Gradually she began to be aware of where she was. She’d gone in the opposite direction from it all, up the back roads of the Ferry, east towards Dalmeny, vaguely aware of the A90 somewhere behind the trees on her right, sweeping towards Edinburgh. She turned left and found herself on a farm lane, views of Dalgety Bay across the Forth, her legs aching and her arms still thrusting away, as if she knew what she was doing, where she was going.

She turned at the end of the track, passed some cottages and realised where she was, heading back into the Ferry from the east side, close to Dalmeny railway station. Her breath was short, a wheeze in her chest. She headed towards the train station. She’d waited on that platform hundreds of times for trains into the city, always looking the other way, over the bridge. In the last six months whenever she’d stood there, she imagined jumping on to the tracks, not suicide, not that way at least. She imagined leaping on to the gravel between the rusty rails and sprinting in the direction of the bridge, it wasn’t far, she could make it easily. She wondered if she could run all the way over the rail bridge before a train came and crushed her, or before railway security managed to stop her. She imagined the bridge from Iain Banks’ book, an entire civilisation living inside the legs and arms of the structure. Everyone in the Ferry knew that book, Iain had lived over the water in North Queensferry, he was one of their own.

She didn’t stop at the station now but pounded on, pulled towards the shoreline by the gravity of the sea, the power of the water that had taken Logan, her home calling her as she leapt down the steep stairs below the rail bridge, through the thick trees, coming out on Shore Road at the east end of the village by the legs of the rail bridge.

Without looking she ran across the road to the bridge leg, where she stopped and placed her shaking hands against the stonework. Her breath heaved and her lungs ached, her legs trembled as she used the bridge for support. Three tourists walked past, sauntering into the village, staring at her. She wasn’t dressed like a jogger, so why was she out of breath? What was she running from?

As she stood there, that comforting rumble of the train overhead, click-clack of wheels on rails, the rattle of people going places a hundred feet above her head.

If she’d run on to the bridge like she imagined, the train would be bearing down on her now. She wouldn’t even be halfway across. Maybe she would’ve just lain down and let it crush her. Maybe she would’ve jumped over the side, like her son. Maybe she would’ve stood tall, a character in a superhero movie, and the train would explode on impact. She would walk away unharmed, to save the planet from annihilation.