The questions rushed out in a torrent. It was as if her guest were a little in love with Helen, Ceri thought uncharitably. And she was about to say something deeply disappointing – she liked to pretend these details were classified despite the fact they’d been all over the newspapers – when she caught Tim’s eye. He was studying her closely. Did he know the subject of the conversation? Either way, he was giving Ceri the eye, tacitly encouraging her to give Lucy what she was asking for.

So, taking another large gulp of Cabernet Franc, Ceri dutifully trotted out the details of Helen’s heroism. It stuck in her craw but there was nothing for it but to play ball. Another evening ruined, Ceri thought to herself.

One more night languishing in the shadow of Helen Grace.

55

Helen slammed the front door shut behind her and hurried into the living room. She didn’t even bother to turn the light on – she simply opened up the file Charlie had given her and began to devour it.

The unredacted file was still frustratingly short on detail. It described an altercation outside the Filcher and Firkin pub in Northampton city centre between Robert and a local thug named Jason Reeves. Drink had been taken and an argument over a girl spilled into violence. A broken bottle was used – making it a serious offence – but the injuries were minor.

The arresting PC had scented a good collar – assault with a deadly weapon. However, twenty-four hours after Jason Reeves had made his statement – in colourful language – he had suddenly withdrawn the charges. There was no statement retracting his earlier one – just a brief coda written at the end of the report. Charges withdrawn because of mistaken identity.

Helen read the file from top to bottom again. It was obvious that someone had got to Reeves, as he’d been clear about Robert’s involvement in his initial statement. And as Robert didn’t really have any friends in Northampton and wouldn’t have had time to build up the necessary flying hours with the local criminal fraternities, Helen could only conclude that the police had leant on Reeves.

What had Robert become involved in that he would have that kind of backing? Helen could only infer that he was an informant and the thought made her shiver – things seldom ended well for informants, however careful they might be.

Amidst so much mystery and uncertainty, there was one small clue however – the name of the officer who had signed off the charge sheet, effectively exonerating Robert. His rank was intriguing – too senior to be a desk sergeant or beat copper – as was his name: DI Tom Marsh. Did that name ring a bell? Should Helen approach him directly or employ subterfuge? Not knowing the character of DI Marsh, it was hard to know which way to jump.

Helen was still considering her next move, when her phone rang. This day that was full of surprises had one more left in store. The caller was Daniel Briers.

56

He’d taken the number 76 bus out to Otterbourne, waiting almost until the end of the line before turning on Ruby’s phone and sending the customary tweets and texts. Normally this little charade amused him, but today it made him anxious. Had he tweeted from Pippa’s phone after the police had discovered her body? If so, had they made this connection?

So many questions he couldn’t possibly answer and the not knowing was torturing him. Exhausted by the day’s events, he found no satisfaction in the dance of death today – he just wanted to be home. One stop before the terminus, he got off and crossed the road to take the number 38 back into town.

Stepping inside the old house, he collapsed on to the sofa, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The whole place was in a state of chaos – half-finished bits of DIY, creeping patches of damp and empty pizza boxes everywhere, which the rats visited nightly. Coming home had failed to raise his spirits in the way he’d hoped and he felt curiously despondent. What if Summer was as recalcitrant and hostile as she’d been earlier? He wasn’t sure he could face another round of that. Putting off the moment of their reunion, he grabbed a bin bag from the kitchen and started shovelling rubbish into it, determined to get a grip on a house that was falling down around his ears.

Soon he was dusty, thirsty and even more exhausted than before. His body and his mind were urging him to go to bed, to get some rest. But still he resisted. She was down there, underneath these floorboards, waiting for him. Try as he might he couldn’t resist her pull. She was his drug. The one thing he couldn’t do without.

He paused and looked at himself in the mirror. Where once he had been young and handsome, now he appeared careworn and tired. No wonder she struggled to accept him. But still, was there any need to be so cruel? If she carried on like this, he would have to impose sanctions. He would take away her inhaler. If she needed to be broken, then so be it …

He found he was already halfway to her cell, his feet guiding him there on auto-pilot. It was as if he were in a dream – unable to control his actions or events. Pulling himself back to reality, he slipped the wicket hatch open. For once, she wasn’t lying on the bed, despondent. It was hard to make out details in the gloom, but she seemed to be sitting up, waiting for something.

Sliding the wicket hatch shut, he switched on the main lights and slipped inside. To his surprise, there was Summer, just like he always pictured her, sitting on the bed in her skirt, earrings and top, a pretty smile spread across her face.

This is a dream, he thought to himself. But finally it’s a good one.

57

She hated lying, but sometimes you had no choice. At least that’s what DC Sanderson told herself as she dialled Sinead Murphy’s number. Having already lied to her team about what she was up to, she was now about to lie to an unsuspecting member of the public.

‘It’s about your daughter Roisin.’

The voice on the other end of the line – which moments earlier had been warm and welcoming – suddenly went quiet.

‘There’s no need to be alarmed. This is just a routine follow-up call,’ Sanderson continued, keen to put Roisin’s mother at ease. ‘Our records show you reported your daughter missing nearly three years ago. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, for all the good it did me.’

‘I take it you’ve not seen her since you made the report?’

‘No’ was the brief and sober response.

Sanderson ran through the particulars on the forms – occupation, family, physical descriptions, past behaviour – before asking the only question that mattered.

‘Has there been any contact between you and Roisin since she went missing? Anything at all?’

There was a long pause, then:

‘I suppose you could call it contact.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She sends the odd text or tweet. But she never replies when I text back.’

‘Have you tried calling her on that number?’

‘What do you think?’ was the withering response.

‘And?’

‘Always straight to voicemail.’

‘Can you remember the last time she tweeted?’

‘Why do you want to know? Why are you asking me all these questions?’

Sanderson paused – how to respond?

‘We’re just trying to make some progress on Roisin’s case. Frankly, too little has been done so far and her communications are the best hope we have of finding out where she is.’