‘No chance. She’s on curfew. My delightful daughter won’t even let me near her.’ Gabby’s fingers bit into her forearm as she pulled Sarah closer. ‘Visit Libby in hospital. Take Elliott with you. See if you can get either of them to talk. And think about that letter you showed me. There was nothing useful from forensics, but I might have been too quick to dismiss it.’ She released her grip. ‘Please. For Jahmelia. She’s not street smart like Libby. We need to get this bastard off the streets before he hurts anyone else.’ A look of understanding passed between them. ‘I’ve assigned you to making local enquiries for the next few hours. Whatever it takes, you have my blessing. Do what you can.’

Sarah knew better than to argue with her sergeant, but this felt off-grid. Her job was to commit words to paper and create a legible account. Having said that, it was satisfying, earning Gabby’s trust. If her sergeant needed her to pull out all the stops then she would. The thought of anything happening to Jahmelia was enough to spur anyone on. Libby had been lucky, but the Midnight Man would not make a second mistake.

31

Elsie relaxed as the front door clicked shut. Another visit from a police officer, albeit not a very nice one. Elsie saw the way she’d looked at her, with a mixture of pity and disgust. The police seemed very interested in her family of late. They said they had to take a statement to eliminate Christian from their enquiries because he was connected with Blackhall Manor. But Christian had been at work. Elsie wasn’t stupid. She knew when someone was digging. Still, she didn’t think she had anything to worry about. She relaxed back into her bed as her mind turned things over. She’d given them a full family history to steer the focus away from Christian. That had made the officer’s mascara-laden eyes pop. It had actually felt good to get things off her chest. She was adept at blocking out bad feelings. From a very young age, she implemented the coping mechanism to deal with those who forced their will upon her. Food was her anaesthetic and as her body expanded it had earned her the benefit of her father’s disgust.

Her eyes fell on the picture of her parents which taunted her from the yellowed wall. Why did she do this to herself, this form of self-flagellation? What sort of a masochist was she? Even now, after her parents were gone, their soulless eyes tortured her. A cleft in your chin instead of your foot, but no less a devil for that … The words of Sylvia Plath had imprinted themselves on her heart. Plath’s poem was imbued with such a sense of hatred for her father, it made Elsie feel a little less alone. Like Plath, she was killing herself too.