‘The data wasn’t as strong as we’d hoped, back then – it wasn’t conclusive. As far as the body in that room—’

‘Not “the body”. Jane. A human being called Jane.’

‘As far as Jane is concerned, we can’t go around making arrests for cases that the Crown Prosecution Service would toss in the bin. We need to get this right, so it will stick.’

I press my fists against my eyes. ‘He’s here. A woman came to the hospital. I think she must be his wife. With a little girl who must be his. Is she? Is she his daughter?’

‘Yes. His wife and his child. You’ve nothing to fear from them.’

‘The child is the same age . . .’ My voice trails off.

‘I know that must be difficult for you.’

‘Does the woman know who I am?’

‘We think probably not. The little girl’s medical condition is real. She needed that clinic appointment.’

‘Are they safe? He shouldn’t be allowed near a child.’

‘There’s no evidence he would hurt a child.’ She is uncharacteristically thoughtful, even hesitant, before she continues. ‘I’d hoped you could put all of this behind you. I wish that could have been true.’

Then
A Quarrel

Two years and three months earlier

Cornwall, 3 January 2017

Since finding Jane’s suitcase two weeks ago, I’d barely thought of anything else. On the third day of January, though, I was thinking about Milly instead. I was on my way to see her, and we were meeting by the harbour.

The sea was boiling. The wind was howling. The waves were moving walls of rock. Milly and I would never take the safer, drier lanes through the town. Like teenagers, we stuck to the path that followed the sea wall. Spray shot out and up, chasing us. We knew we really could be snatched and swallowed. It had happened to others before.

We threw our arms around each other, grabbed hands and ran through a gauntlet of water, screaming and laughing our calls of Happy New Year, refusing to worry about slipping, stopping to buy chips at one of the cafes along the harbour. There was a belated rendition of Happy Birthday, sung by Milly to me.

We turned on to the eighteenth-century pier, passing walls of stacked lobster pots, jumbo bags of green rope, and red plastic crates for hauling the dead mackerel from the boats to the land. The smell made me gag, but Milly didn’t notice and we walked on to the pier’s far end, where the air was clear.

Our feet were soaked, our hair was drenched, and we were shivering. But we were happy, sitting on the stone bench that followed the wall of the pier and doubled as our backrest. We were burning our fingers on the chips.