The Death of Her Read online

  the

  DEATH

  of

  HER

  DEBBIE HOWELLS

  MACMILLAN

  For Georgie and Tom

  If there is any wisdom running through my life now, in my walking on this earth, it came from listening in the Great Silence to the stones, trees, space, the wild animals, to the pulse of all life as my heartbeat.

  Vijali Hamilton

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Casey, 1998

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Casey, 2000

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  Casey, 2001

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Casey, 2001

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Casey, 2004

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Casey, 2015

  42

  43

  44

  45

  Casey

  46

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I know you from your words, the images you share. What touches you, makes you laugh, what angers you. The network of your friendships; a chequerboard of happy, bland avatars, no more or no less readable than your own is. Your latest haircut; shorter than I remember, the ends lightened by the sun.

  It’s in your eyes, the turn of your head, the secret you’re smiling. Familiar to me, because you were always there; not yet centre stage, but in the margins of my life. Lost amongst others, waiting for your moment.

  But moments pass. And now, you pretend you’re safe. You don’t know, do you, that no one can hide forever?

  I am in the shadows, where you can’t yet see me. You will, though, in the dark corners, the silences, before the blurred edges of reality close in. There’s no stopping what will happen. One day, you’ll understand the power of destiny. How some things are inevitable; that even shadow-dwellers like me have a purpose in this life.

  You’ll get that, I know you will. But then I know you well. You are my friend.

  1

  Charlotte

  I hear the helicopter just seconds before it looms overhead, its dark shape low enough that I can feel the downforce from its rotor blades, whipping up my hair, mixing it with the spray flying across the sand.

  I turn to watch it, the sun briefly dazzling me, and then just as quickly it’s gone. Retrieving my towel from where it’s been blown across the beach and shaking the wet sand from it, I’m only idly curious. Around here, it’s not uncommon to be buzzed by a low-flying helicopter, on its way to rescue an inexperienced climber or injured surfer. There are any number of beaches along this stretch of the north Cornwall coastline, many not easily accessible by road. I turn my attention back to the waves, just in time to see Rick catch a glassy barrel, then gracefully ride it to shore. Picking up my board, I go to join him.

  2

  It’s not until a couple of days later that Rick tells me more.

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot to mention . . . This girl was attacked. On one of the farms. Lower Farm, I think.’ His hair is wet from the shower, his eyes bright after a morning surfing. ‘A couple of Jimbo’s lot were running. They found her in the middle of a maize field.’

  I’m all ears. Jimbo runs an overpriced boot camp for tourists, and surfs with Rick when he can get away. The surfers’ grapevine is notoriously reliable. It’s all that time together, floating on their boards, as they wait for the perfect wave.

  ‘What happened to her?’ This is rural Cornwall. Nothing like this happens here.

  He shrugs. ‘Not really sure. It was bad, though. They thought she was dead at first.’

  ‘When did it happen?’ I’m frowning, thinking of the low-flying helicopter, wondering if the timing is coincidence or if she was airlifted to hospital.

  ‘A couple of days ago. Maybe three?’ he says, vaguely.

  I’m amazed it’s taken this long for word to get around, the surfers’ grapevine being what it is, or maybe Rick didn’t think to mention it.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he adds. ‘Some of us are meeting at the Shack later. Around six – there may be some waves. You should come. With any luck we could get an hour before dark.’ In an unusual display of affection, he plants a kiss on the top of my head.

  The Shack is OK; a scruffy locals’ bar on one of the beaches a short drive from here that sells Cornish beer and looks nothing from the outside, but inside is all bare wood with surfboards hanging from the ceiling, sand walked inside coating the floor. It’ll be full of Rick’s mates and wannabe tourist types, dressed to blend in, except you can spot them a mile off, because they don’t.

  If I’m going to drag myself out on a chilly evening, I prefer a bit of glamour – a cosy restaurant or warm, dimly lit cocktail bar. ‘I’m good,’ I tell him, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ll probably have an early night.’

  For the most part, Rick and I lead separate lives – we sometimes drink together, smoke a joint or two, have sex. We’re not star-crossed lovers; what we have is undemanding and convenient. Physical contact is like food – a basic human need. I should know. I’ve gone long spells without so much as the brush of a hand. And big, empty houses can be lonely.

  After he goes out and I hear his Jeep drive away, I open a bottle of wine and start scrolling through Netflix, listening to the wind rattling the sash windows, knowing it’ll whip up some waves. Only they’ll be windblown, messy ones, rather than the clean, head-height barrels Rick will be hoping for. But it won’t faze him. Nothing does. No matter how many forecasts, swell charts, wind maps you follow, the ocean will always surprise you, he’s told me many times.

  ‘Why do you drink so much?’ I’m still in my pyjamas, nursing a hangover, when Rick picks up the empty wine bottle from last night. By the time he got home, I’d finished it then started on another, before falling asleep on the sofa.

  ‘I really don’t.’ I’m irritable, not in the mood for one of his holier-than-thou lectures on how my body is a temple. I know my body better than he does. ‘You probably had just as much and drove home, which is far worse.’

  ‘Two pints,’ he says, shortly. ‘You do this every night. And it’s usually more – we both know that. By the time you know you’ve fucked up your liver, it’ll be too late.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah . . .’ I get up to go back upstairs, because I’ve heard it all before. It’s not like Rick to be confrontational, but this time he grabs my arm.

  ‘You take it for granted, don’t you?’ His eyes glitter angrily. ‘Always so bloody sure of yourself. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?’

  I stare just as angrily back at him, wondering where this has come from. ‘It’s a few glasses of wine, Rick. What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

  But he doesn’t answer, just lets go of me and shakes his head as he walks away.

  I don’t like being spoken to like that, especially not by Rick. Even less do I like the spike of truth in his words. But better a shorter life lived to the full than the dragged-out mundane ones so many people cling to for as long as they can. Whether you live twenty years or sixty, unless you save the planet or cure cancer, what does it actually matter?

  Upstairs, I pull
on jeans and a hoody, glancing out of the window to see Rick stride across the garden then stand with his back to the house, gazing out across the bay. I’ve no idea what’s eating him, but clearly something is. Taking a deep breath, I go outside to join him.

  ‘Not surfing today?’ As I catch him up, my tone is light, conciliatory, but he’s still rigid as I slip my arm through his.

  He shrugs. ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘Look, is something wrong?’ I remove my arm, turning to face him. ‘Because you’re being shitty, Rick.’

  He’s silent for a moment, still looking out to sea, then he turns to face me. ‘You really want to know?’

  As I nod, I’m aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation.

  ‘I don’t get you. All this time we’ve been together, and you spend every day in that house, not really doing anything. You don’t work. You were going to paint – but all you do is make excuses. Don’t you have dreams? Places you want to see? People in your life?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I say quietly, trying to contain the seething anger welling up inside me. I know exactly what I want from life. I don’t have to share it with him.

  ‘We all think we have forever.’ His jaw set, he’s on a roll. ‘Only none of us do. We live in the most beautiful part of this country, where nothing bad happens, and then a woman gets attacked on our doorstep. Nearly dies. Doesn’t it make you think it could happen to anyone? Like you, even?’

  ‘I’m not going to walk around thinking I’m in danger,’ I tell him. What’s the matter with him? ‘Things happen all the time, Rick. Bad things. People fuck up, even in pretty places like Cornwall. It’s no different to anywhere else.’

  When he looks at me, there’s an expression of disgust on his face. ‘You know what? That’s it, in a nutshell. You don’t care. You’re not shocked or even sad it’s happened. You just accept it. And most people are just like you. Except I’m not.’ He’s silent for a moment. ‘I don’t know . . .’ He breaks off. When he looks at me, I can’t fathom the expression in his eyes.

  But I’ve had more than enough. ‘You know what, Rick? I’m going for a walk.’

  I walk away from him, through the gate and onto the coast path, hugging my arms round me in the cool air, trying to keep warm. In my head I continue my conversation with Rick – angrily. It’s a couple of hours later when I get back to the house, less angry, but the absence of Rick’s Jeep still fills me with relief.

  In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and turn on the radio. The brightness of the sun through the large window belies the temperature outside. I sit at the kitchen table and turn on my laptop. With a mug of strong tea in front of me and classical music playing in the background, I start searching for a local supplier of artist’s materials. Rick was right about one thing – I’ve been making excuses not to paint.

  I find what I’m looking for, and I’m jotting down the address when the radio news comes on. I’m only half listening, until one of the items makes my ears prick up.

  ‘Police are looking for information about a woman who was found injured four days ago. The woman was discovered unconscious on farmland in a remote part of north Cornwall. Police are keen to establish who may have seen her any time during 24 September. They are also seeking the whereabouts of her three-year-old daughter. Anyone with information should contact Devon and Cornwall Police. More details are available on our website.’

  I sit there in silence. The fact that a local mugging has made national news somehow gives it more gravity. I check the station’s website, and there it is. The police are seeking information after the woman, known as Evie Sherman, suffered severe head injuries in a brutal attack that left her unconscious on farmland in north Cornwall. They are also investigating the whereabouts of her three-year-old daughter.

  Underneath, there’s a photograph of the woman. It’s hard to tell how old she is. Her face is an unhealthy grey, mottled with red-black bruising, and there’s a dazed expression in her eyes. It looks as though she’s in a hospital bed. Studying her more closely, I frown. There’s something familiar about her.

  I click on Devon and Cornwall Police’s Facebook page. As I scroll down, there are several recent posts of a more trivial nature – a gun amnesty, a spate of burglaries, road traffic accident – none of which hold my interest. Then, further down, the same photo. The brief paragraph mentions how she was airlifted to hospital after being found unconscious. It gives her name again, and asks anyone who recognizes her to contact Truro police.

  Further down still, there’s another photo. I study it, deep in thought, then hunt around for my phone. The police are wrong. Her name isn’t Evie. It’s Jen.

  3

  ‘Babe? There’s someone at the door. Can you get it? I’ve just got out the shower.’

  Even if he hears me above the sound of the guitar he’s playing, Rick doesn’t reply. I feel a flash of irritation and wish I could be as oblivious, as self-absorbed, when someone asks me to do something. The doorbell rings again and, quickly pulling on some clothes, I run downstairs to answer it.

  ‘Yes?’

  The woman on the doorstep looks puzzled. She’s probably one of those tourists who think they can rock up to any old place just because it’s Cornwall and they think they’ve seen it on the television.

  ‘Are you Charlotte Harrison?’

  Oh God. How does this woman know me? ‘I’m sorry . . .’ I turn away and start to close the door, but something’s in the way. When I look down, it’s her foot. When I look up again, she’s holding out a police badge.

  ‘Detective Inspector Abbie Rose. Please don’t close the door.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say? I’d completely forgotten you were coming.’ I swing the door open and let her in.

  I lead her through the hallway into the open-plan living area. She looks around, at the whitewashed Cornish-stone walls and the views that, even after a year here, still take my breath away. The house is perched above Epphaven Cove, which was one of Cornwall’s best-kept secrets until a national paper ran a feature and ruined it.

  She walks over to the north-facing window. Not many people come here, but I enjoy watching their reactions when they see the view for the first time. As she turns round, she glances at the paintings and the furniture; to the uneducated eye they might look incongruous, but to those who know, they’re utterly wondrous. I wonder if DI Abbie Rose knows what she’s looking at.

  ‘Do you live here alone?’

  ‘Some of the time.’ A guitar wail comes from a distant corner of the house. ‘That’s Rick. He follows the waves.’ He does, literally, follow them around the globe, coming and going like the swallows under the eaves, only less predictably.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ I gesture towards the cerise velvet sofa. Pink’s my favourite colour, as anyone who knows me will tell you. I have a pink bathroom, pink Jimmy Choos, a big American fridge full of pink champagne.

  ‘Thank you.’ She perches on the edge of the sofa, then reaches into her bag for a notebook.

  I sit in the oversized armchair near the window. ‘How can I help, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘I understand you recognized the woman who was attacked, from the photo on our Facebook page.’

  ‘Yes. With all that bruising, it’s hard to be completely sure, of course, but I think so . . .’

  ‘When you called the station yesterday, you said you knew her as Jen Russell. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. We were at school together.’

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘Padstow College.’ I watch her write it down. ‘Have you found her child?’ Since the police posted her details on Facebook, there’s been the typical, gushing public outpouring of condolence and shared grief – and a few haters. I’ve checked once or twice, curious to see who else crawled out of the woodwork.

  ‘Not yet.’ Abbie Rose isn’t giving much away. ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘We were in the same year,’ I tell her. ‘We weren’t close friends. We moved in different circ
les that overlapped from time to time . . .’ Cliques, is more accurate. The usual bitchy girl gangs who shagged each other’s boyfriends behind each other’s backs, is how I remember it.

  ‘When was the last time you saw each other?’

  Now there’s a question. It’s been a long time. Too long or not long enough? But then, we’re not the same people any more. ‘I suppose . . .’ I frown, trying to remember, as someone thunders down the stairs and slams the front door noisily. I glance outside. ‘Rick,’ I say, by way of explanation. ‘There’s an offshore wind. Good for waves, if you catch the tide at the right time. There’s a brief window of opportunity – at high tide, the beach here is completely submerged.’ As I’m speaking, Rick jogs across the lawn, surfboard under one arm, the top half of his wetsuit unzipped and flapping behind him. ‘Do you surf, Detective Inspector?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I pause. ‘You were asking me about Jen. I suppose we last saw each other about ten years ago. Someone’s twenty-first . . . I can’t remember whose.’

  ‘So that would have been after Leah Danning disappeared?’

  Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that the police have already linked Jen’s name to what happened. Since before I left Cornwall, all those years ago, it’s the first time I’ve heard Leah’s name mentioned. Three-year-old Leah, who Jen used to babysit – until one day, in broad daylight, she disappeared. It rocked everyone round here, more so because the police never discovered what happened to her.

  4

  I hesitate. ‘Do you think this is connected to what happened to Leah?’

  Abbie Rose gives nothing away. ‘We’ve no idea. But at this stage, we have to look at everything.’

  ‘Of course.’ But it still surprises me. It must be fifteen years since Leah disappeared. ‘Poor Jen. I don’t know how you ever get over that. I mean, losing someone’s child when they’re in your care . . . You didn’t have to know her well to see the change in her, after. And now her own daughter is missing . . .’ I imagine guilt layered upon guilt, at the same time as I wonder how Jen’s coping with what must be unbearable.