She turned back to Martin Fletcher. He had stood up and was trying to get out of the window.

She rushed forward but he shouted, stopping her.

‘Stay back or I’ll jump!’

She stayed where she was. ‘Come on, Martin, don’t be stupid. You’ll break your neck if you jump from here. Kill yourself.’

‘I shouldn’t have come here . . .’ Martin Fletcher was crying. ‘It’s my fault. All my fault. I shouldn’t have come here . . .’

‘It’s not that bad, Martin, come on. Let’s talk about it . . .’ She tried to edge closer to him.

He moved further out on to the ledge. ‘I said stay back!’

Marina stayed where she was.

‘There’s nothing for me. Not now. Just prison, with the nonces and the paedos . . .’

‘Martin . . .’

‘Tell Gemma, tell Gemma . . . I loved her . . .’

‘Martin, no!’

But her words fell on empty air. He had jumped.

‘Be about another five minutes.’

Tony’s words called Marina back to the present. She gave a grunted reply, took another drink.

And that had been that. Martin Fletcher had jumped, killing himself in the process. And Phil hadn’t been there to help her. To save her. He had tried to contact her afterwards, when he had heard what happened. But she wouldn’t take his calls. She also discovered that he had tried to contact her when her phone was switched off. He’d wanted to tell her that at best he would be late, and at worst he wouldn’t be able to make it. There had been a murder and he had been called out to attend.

That didn’t make it better. None of it made it better. She had needed him to be there for her and he had failed. That was all there was to it.

She couldn’t help feeling like that. It was the Italian in her, and she couldn’t escape her ancestry. If a man said he would be there, he would be there. No question, no argument. And if he didn’t, if he let her down, then she had every right to be mad at him.

For over a week she awoke screaming during the night, Martin Fletcher’s face the final thing she would see before waking. Tony had been there for her every time. Safe, dependable Tony. A good man who looked after her when she needed it.

But she couldn’t face the university again. Not after what had happened. So she had left and set up on her own.

Then she discovered she was pregnant. Tony was fine about it. Happy, even. She might have thought that the pram in the hall meant the death of romance, but Tony had never been the most romantic of people to begin with. It didn’t even mean the death of his personal freedom, because he never went anywhere.

He was the one who insisted she drank only soft drinks. He had even talked about redecorating the upstairs study for the baby, suggested colour schemes, murals. He had gone so far as to pick up a Mothercare catalogue and ask her opinion of baby buggies. He was enjoying her new pregnancy and she wished she could join him. As it was it just scared her, sometimes even depressed her.

She did see Phil once more. He was waiting for her when she came out of work on one of her final days at the university. She saw him loitering behind a pillar and immediately turned the other way. He chased after her.

‘Please, Marina, please . . .’

She hurried away from him.

‘Please . . .’

She just kept walking, didn’t even acknowledge him. Eventually he realised that his words were having no impact and that she wasn’t going to slow down. He stopped, let her walk away. Out of his life.

She turned another corner, found herself in part of the campus that was almost deserted. She flattened herself against the rough concrete wall and cried her heart out.

Eventually she returned home. Tony had been watching Question Time on TV. She had walked past him, straight up the stairs, and gone to bed. And that was the end of Phil.

Until Ben Fenwick’s call.

She looked out of the window once more.

‘I’m dishing up,’ Tony called from the kitchen.

Marina called back that that would be fine. She looked again at the slow-moving river. She thought of the dead women, the missing baby. And Phil. She tried to keep him out of her mind, but there he was. His eyes staring into hers.

‘Have I got time for a shower?’ she said.

‘Well it’s ready now . . .’ Tony came into the living room, glanced at her. Saw how tired and careworn she looked. Smiled. ‘Go on. Get your shower. I’ll keep it warm.’

She managed to return the smile, then made her way up the stairs.

Trying to ignore the conflicting emotions running through her.

Her arm across her stomach all the time.

31

H e held the hen down forcibly on the square block of wood. Its eyes were wide and staring. Its beak was open but it was too terrified to make any sound. It couldn’t call for help or raise an alarm. It just lay there, a heavy hand, callused, rough and dirty, not allowing it to move.

Cross-hatched with blade indentations, the wood was ingrained and stained from dried blood and matter that had seeped into it through years of use.

The hen looked up, made one last attempt to escape and then gave up, mutely accepting its fate. The blade of the axe arced through the cold morning air. Landed with a thud in the wood, slicing through bone, feathers, flesh and skin. Blood spurted upwards and outwards, a gory ejaculation. The hen’s head lay there, staring sightlessly upwards. Its body twitched and jerked like a carnival sideshow geek, held firmly in place by the hand until its gyrations and spasms came to a halt.

He wiped his hands down the sides of his long overcoat. Left long streaks of blood and gore, dark against the dark material. Glistening. Soon the marks would sink into the fabric. Join the other old stains that made up the texture of the coat.

He straightened up, looked round.The house was on the edge of the river, just up from the muddy sands. The river moved slowly towards the sea, flat and oily in the weak early-morning light.The surrounding area was flat and bleak, the marshland stretching to the sands, away to the river, the sea. The trees bare and spindly, late autumn naked, like bone sculptures painted with dried, dark blood.

He put the axe down, closed his eyes.Things were different this morning. Because Hester was no longer a mother.

She had lain awake most of the night, staring at the baby. She found it fascinating. Its little chest moving up and down. Its fingers clasping and unclasping, grasping at invisible creatures. Angels or demons, Hester thought. Its face contorting, mouth twisting and chewing. It was like a little creature from a Disney cartoon. Not a real, dying baby, just a pretend special effect.

Gradually it weakened until it could move no more. Its breathing became so shallow it eventually stopped. Its face and hands stopped twisting. Still fascinated, Hester put her head on one side, leaned in close, tried to hear the last trail of air leave its body. Its final sigh. She missed it. But it changed nothing. The baby was dead.

It lay in the cot, still and lifeless. Like it needed its batteries replacing. Hester poked it, prodded it. It didn’t move. She prodded again, harder this time. It still didn’t move. She leaned in closer, used both hands this time. It rocked slightly but returned to its original position when she took her hands away.

So that was that. The baby was gone. Hester was no longer a mother.

She felt something then, an ache inside, like something had been taken from her and could never be replaced. That feeling sparked another one. An older but similar feeling of something being taken from her body. Cut from her. She had tried not to remember it, fought against it returning to mind. Failed. She had tried to keep it from her head for years because when it arrived it was so painful she couldn’t cope and it spun her into a deep depression that could last for days, weeks even. She would just mope around the house, get no work done, make no food, just cry for what she had lost. And there was no cure. She had to ride it out.