Dedication

For the Hot Tub Girls, with love x.

Prologue

The next time the child wakes, darkness has fallen. Through the chink in the curtains she sees the moon shining, a milky light behind the clouds. It’s quiet and still; an atmosphere as if thunder is gathering. The child listens to the rasping of her own breath.

Inside the room, nothing moves. On the wall, plaster Jesus, caught in the moon-glow, looks down from between deep shadows, one hand raised in blessing. The child wants her mother, but her mother is dead. All the child has is the locket that she keeps beneath her pillow, small and heart-shaped; a secret.

‘Dad?’ she calls, tentatively. There is no answer. She listens hard but hears nothing, not her father’s snoring, nor the tapping of the paws of his little terrier, Trip, on the lino downstairs.

She is completely alone.

The child pushes herself up, untangling her limbs from the damp sheets. Her throat has been cross-hatched by razor blades; the glands in her neck are plum-sized, hard as pebbles. Her glass is at the side of her bed but the bottle of lemonade that Mrs deVillars brought over earlier is on the chest of drawers against the opposite wall, Jesus watching over it. Slowly, carefully, the child slides her legs out of bed. The floorboards creak, warm and warped beneath the soles of her feet. She’s so hot she will melt like candle-wax, but at the same time she’s shivering with cold. Her nightdress sticks to her, drenched with sweat.

She moves to the window, which has been open for weeks to try to draw in any passing whisper of cool air, and puts her hands on the ledge. Outside, the night is black, with the texture of treacle. It tastes like the weed washed up on the mud and dried in the sun; the feathers of gulls. Distantly, ship lights glimmer on the estuary.

The moon is emerging from its hiding place amongst the clouds: a good half-moon chalked onto a humid sky with the distant Welsh mountains like inkblots below. In the moonlight, the child sees a movement on the mudflats at the shoreline. Someone is down there. For a moment, in her feverish state, she believes it is her mother and her heart lifts even though deep down she knows it can’t be. She watches the person as they go to the edge of the sea, and hold back their arm, and fling something far out; a silent splash as it makes contact with the water. Whoever it is stands for a moment, staring out over the sea until the moon retreats and then they turn and disappear back into the shadows.

1

Thursday

A lively wind danced across the estuary flatlands, shimmying the feathered heads of the reeds that lined the rhynes. Marnie Morahan headed back down the track with the dogs: her own beloved Tessy and the foster dog, a monstrous-looking animal that Jenna at the rescue centre had named Mister. He had short legs and a chest so barrelled that he waddled rather than walked. His head and neck were covered in scars and old wounds from his days as a bait dog, one ear almost completely gone, the other with chunks missing like a leaf got at by snails. His grizzled snout was encased inside a Silence of the Lambs-style muzzle designed to protect him from himself. If another dog came too close, Mister might try to kill it and he was already on his final warning. His next aggressive bite would be his last.

Marnie loved all animals, even difficult-to-love ones like Mister; especially ones like him. It was people she struggled with. It was a two-way street. Marnie didn’t trust people and most people thought she was weird with her old black clothes and boots, her piercings and tattoos, her hair shaved close to her skull, her sullen expression and downcast eyes; her reluctance to be involved with anyone except for her immediate family, Jenna and her dog-training clients. Her muteness. Marnie knew people called her a misfit, and worse. It didn’t hurt because she was used to it; she’d been the odd one out all her life. Sometimes she worried that her oddness would become an embarrassment to her daughter, Lucy, or worse, that bullies might target Lucy because of her, but fortunately Lucy was a sunny, friendly girl, popular at school. She accepted Marnie as she was and expected others to accept her too. Lucy understood that Marnie could no more change than the sun could rise in the west: she didn’t need to be close to people and people didn’t need to be close to her.

The track was stony. Gritty puddles had formed in the potholes. The grass that grew in shabby green strips was submerged in the wet. The hedgerows on either side had lost their leaves months earlier and were black and twiggy, and the branches of the wind-worn trees above were jagged, mistletoe growing like ragged hair in the pits of their joints. Deep ruts made by ploughs in undulating stripes across the fields were full of water that reflected the light.

Clouds raced across a high, wintry sky that morning; a flock of lapwings banked steeply into the air, flashing white then black. Tessy stopped to sniff at a pile of dung and Mister looked up at Marnie with bloodshot, prize-fighter eyes, confused because he did not understand the joys of sniffing.

Marnie put her hand in the pocket of her ancient coat and pulled out a handful of dried pilchards. She offered one to Mister through the muzzle, but the dog backed away, believing it to be a trick, expecting to be punished. Marnie dropped the treat on the ground. Mister stared at it, but made no move to eat it.

What have they done to you? Marnie wondered. What did they do?

Mister clamped the stub of his tail between his back legs and shivered.

They walked on, Tessy running ahead to flush out a partridge that was hiding in the foot of the hedge, wagging her spaniel-flag tail. The partridge squawked and flapped clumsily into the air, trailing red feathers. The small group stepped carefully over the railway sleepers laid across a drainage rhyne, silvery reeds growing tall along its length and walked to the end of the track. Marnie put Tessy back on the lead before she opened the gate and they went through together.

To their left, now, was the old wall that surrounded the gardens of the deVillarses’ house, a three-storey Gothic villa with the official name of Blackwater but known to the residents of Severn Sands town as the Big House. To their right was the old Channel View holiday park where Marnie’s father used to be caretaker and where she had spent all her free time growing up. It was no longer a holiday park. Now it was a building site.

For almost a month bulldozers had been churning up the fields where the caravans used to be ranked, breaking the foundations of the old amusement park and funfair. The ancient hedgerow that used to encircle the park was gone, replaced by interlocking metal barriers and signs warning people to keep out. Piles of bricks and plastic piping were stacked over what had once been Marnie’s playground. The old apple tree that only last week she’d made the builders swear they wouldn’t touch lay on its side, roots exposed like a great muddy scab, branches reaching out helplessly. Marnie had wished a curse on those builders when she saw what they’d done to the tree. She used to scramble up its trunk and hide amongst its leaves when she was little. She knew every branch, each knobble and handhold. The tree had been a friend to Marnie and she didn’t have many friends.

‘It was dying anyway,’ the foreman, Gabriel Romanescu, had said when she’d challenged him. ‘If it had been healthy it wouldn’t have gone so easily.’

Marnie had stared at the tree, the branches that used to cradle her snapped like bones.

‘I’m sorry you’re upset,’ Gabriel had said, filling in the spaces left by Marnie’s silence, as people invariably did. ‘I don’t like it when we have to remove trees but sometimes there’s no choice.’

Now, as Marnie drew closer to the old entrance to the holiday park, a weed-infested shingle drive that ran beneath a dilapidated arch with the name of the park above it, she realised something was different. The jaws of the great earth-moving machines were motionless, their engines silent. The contractors in their high-vis protective workwear were gathered around a part of the site where the funfair used to be and there was an atmosphere of uncertainty, exacerbated by the quiet.

Marnie clicked her tongue and the dogs stayed close. Gabriel Romanescu, clad in high-vis workwear and a hard hat, mud clagging his boots, was standing next to a police car parked by the exit. A roll-up burned between his lips, one eye narrowed against the smoke. He was using both hands to compose a message on his phone. He looked up as Marnie approached and then looked down again.

Marnie stopped a few feet away from Gabriel. She didn’t have to speak for Gabriel to know that she was wondering what had happened, and why work had stopped.

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the phone. ‘It’s confidential.’

Marnie waited. Gabriel glanced at her, then back at the phone. He removed the cigarette, examined it and dropped it on the mud.

‘We’ve found some bones buried in the old funfair area,’ he said. ‘We think they’re human.’ He paused a moment, then corrected himself. ‘We can see that they’re human. But we’re not supposed to talk about it. All communications have to go through head office.’

Marnie was silent. The breeze blew cold from the estuary. She narrowed her eyes against it.

‘Let’s hope they are old bones,’ said Gabriel. ‘Let’s hope they’ve been there for hundreds of years. We’ve dug into burial grounds before. Once we found a prehistoric graveyard. The universities were all over it. We had to stop work.’

Marnie gazed past Gabriel into the holiday camp, and she could see it as it used to be: full of people, colour and noise; children playing cricket between the caravans, smoke puffing from barbecues, music singing out from transistor radios; laughter, screams and splashing from the swimming pool. She could see the young woman from Caravan 49, Alice Lang, walking towards her, wearing her lemon yellow sundress, the blonde hair with the dark roots pinned back from her face, the ribbons of her espadrilles making diamond shapes on her calves.

Gabriel was still talking, but Marnie was no longer listening. Behind him, Alice was smiling, waving at Marnie and Marnie couldn’t wave back because she was carrying a plastic laundry basket full of Alice’s clothes. The heat that day was intense, the sun beating down, shining on the sequins sewn onto the scarlet dress that was folded on top of the laundry, and it was a day in late August, almost twenty-five years earlier. Marnie Morahan, aged ten years and two months was sick, and even though she didn’t know it yet, she was about to betray Alice. And she’d never have the chance to make it up to her, because this was the day that Alice Lang would disappear.

2

Will Jones was the only passenger on the single carriage connection from Bristol Temple Meads to Severn Sands. He sat by the window, jiggling his feet, feeling headachy and raw.

He didn’t want to go back to the town where he’d grown up but he owed it to Alice. He’d once told her he would do anything for her, and he’d meant it. He meant it still. When it came to Alice, he had never had a choice. For two and a half decades he’d been powerless to do anything, but now he had a task: to make sure the man who had killed her was brought to justice.

He stared at his own ghostly reflection staring back at him from the surface of a grimy window, the countryside flattened as it unscrolled behind. Alice was dead. There was no avoiding it now. If he was honest, deep down he’d known she was never coming back, but for as long as there was no concrete proof of her death there could still be a tiny thread of hope that she might return. Until today, he’d allowed himself to daydream, to look for her face amongst the commuters on the underground, to imagine a chance encounter in a restaurant, or a park and to write the script of the exchange that would follow – ‘Alice?’ ‘Will? Oh my God, is it really you?’ – to picture the two of them going forward into a future together. Now that thread had been severed. Alice was dead, gone in the cruellest way: murdered. What was left for Will was an overwhelming desire to make Guy deVillars pay for his crime.

Because Guy had killed Alice.

Will had always suspected; now he knew.

It was Tony Costello, an old university friend of Will’s, who told him that Alice’s remains had been found. Tony, a detective with the Avon and Somerset Police, knew about Will and Alice; like all Will’s friends, he’d heard the story of their summer a hundred times. He knew that Will had, for a while, been suspected of doing Alice some harm. Even after a witness came forward to say they’d seen Alice walking alone towards the sea the night she disappeared, fingers still pointed towards Will. When the police investigation was dropped, Will tried to get on with his life. But the shame of being suspected of having hurt the girl he loved and the bitterness he harboured towards his accusers had never dissipated. Neither had the sorrow that she was gone. Tony knew full well that Will’s career and his passion for unsolved crime were rooted in his obsession with the mystery of Alice.

There was no easy way to break the news, and during their phone call earlier that morning, Tony hadn’t tried to sweeten the pill.

‘I thought you’d want to know,’ he’d said to Will after a few basic pleasantries, ‘that human remains have been found buried in Severn Sands.’ He paused a moment then added: ‘The remains of a young, slightly built female.’

Will’s mouth had gone dry. He’d licked his lips, tried to slow his breathing.

‘Will? You still there?’

‘Yes. Yeah. I’m still here. Have they… has she been identified?’

‘Not yet.’

‘So you don’t know…’

‘We can’t be one hundred per cent certain that it’s Alice Lang but everything points to it being her.’

There was a long silence.

‘Where?’ Will had asked at last. ‘Where in Severn Sands did they find her?’

‘The old holiday park. Funfair, to be specific.’

Will groaned. He reached out his free hand to steady himself.

‘I know it’s hard for you, buddy, hearing this,’ said Tony gently, ‘but at least now she can be laid to rest. Now there can be resolution.’

Will’s palm was flat against the black tiles of the kitchen wall. He was imagining Alice’s body curled in its grave; her moonlit skin pale against the dark soil.

Tony was still talking.

‘There was a silver chain in amongst the neck bones. One of the charms is a letter “A”. The other is a little silver swallow. Do they mean anything to you?’

Will remembered that little metal bird resting in the hollow of Alice’s throat beside the “A”, its outline defined against her brown skin, glinting in the sunlight. He remembered her fingers touching it; she turning to him, smiling, saying: ‘It’s perfect, Will!’

‘Will?’ Tony had asked. ‘Will? Are you OK, buddy? Are you OK?’

* * *

Will had been at home when Tony Costello called; making an espresso for his girlfriend, Saoirse. Saoirse worked in publishing – that was how they’d met – and mostly she commuted to an office on the other side of London. The previous day, though, she had come down with what felt like the flu, and had decided to work from home. Normally Will would have been able to go away without having to answer any questions, but because Saoirse was there, in the apartment, he had to tell her that he was packing because he was going back to Severn Sands.

‘Why?’ she asked croakily, clutching a handkerchief to her nose as he stuffed his laptop charger into a side pocket of the rucksack. ‘What’s the point in going back? You can’t do anything.’

‘I need to be there, where it happened, so that I can write about it.’

‘Why can’t you write here?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be authentic.’

Saoirse looked at him doubtfully. The rims of her nostrils were pink.

‘I owe it to Alice to be there,’ said Will.

‘You owe it to Alice?’

‘Yes.’

Saoirse bit her lip, literally, to stop herself saying something unkind about Alice. She, like Will’s other girlfriends before her, believed Will should put Alice behind him and move on, but given the unfurling tragedy she could hardly say anything snarky. Instead she stared at Will in a sorrowful way. She didn’t look great, to be fair, wan and watery-eyed. The coffee steamed on the window ledge. Will knew it would never be drunk. It was one of the annoying things about Saoirse: she was always making drinks, or asking for drinks, and then not drinking them. He was forever pouring half-cups of cold coffee into the sink.

‘Alice isn’t the real reason you’re going away. You want to get away from me, don’t you, Will?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘You’re going to do what you always do when things get tough; you’re going to walk away rather than deal with it.’

‘Jesus, Saoirse, this has nothing to do with you.’

‘I know things have been difficult lately but…’

‘Saoirse…’

‘… every couple has ups and downs. Why don’t you stay and we can talk and try and work things out, find a way forward.’

‘Saoirse, please! How can you even say that? Alice is dead!’

There were a few moments’ silence. He heard the wheezing in her lungs. He continued packing, shoving things into the rucksack.

She tried a different tack. ‘What if I get really ill?’

‘You have a phone. Ciara and Finn are ten minutes away.’

‘I can’t believe you’d leave me when I’m like this.’

‘You’ll be OK,’ said Will.

Saoirse turned and left the room, closing the door loudly behind her and Will felt guilty for a moment but not guilty enough to go after her. They’d been together for eighteen months, which was towards the top end of the length of any of Will’s relationships. Lately, Will had developed the suffocated feeling he always had when heading towards a break-up. When this feeling manifested itself, there was little point prolonging the agony. Will and whoever-she-was may as well get it over and done with, go their separate ways. And right now he absolutely needed to prioritise his emotional energy for Alice and Alice’s murderer. He didn’t want his feelings for Saoirse, or anyone, to get in the way of that.

* * *

In a heartbeat, Will’s mind flipped back to Alice.

She was gone, but she still felt so present that she might have been sitting beside him on the train, a small, fidgety presence, with her bangles and her earrings, her Lennon sunglasses, her ankle chain, her tattoo. What would become of this ever-present, pestering, laughing little ghost now? Would she disappear? And if she did, what would be left for Will? What would be left of him?

3

After the scarlet dress was found at the side of the estuary it seemed that the theory that Alice had drowned was correct. Marnie believed it too.

She had gone down to the shore many times as a child and thrown flowers into the water. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she was certain she could feel Alice close by. Occasionally, she even caught glimpses of Alice’s face in the mist shape-shifting over the estuary, or the reflections echoed across its expanse. Often, she dreamed of Alice, and in her dreams the sea and Alice were the same entity. It had mostly been a comfort. If Alice was part of the estuary, then she still existed; she was not wholly gone.

But none of it had been true; not the feelings, not the glimpses, not the dreams. Alice had never left the holiday park. She’d been abandoned there like a piece of rubbish, as if she meant nothing.

Marnie had almost reached the junction with the lane that would take her and the dogs home when a chunky maroon car pulled up at the roadside. The passenger-side door opened and a blonde woman climbed out.

‘Excuse me,’ the woman called, ‘can I have a quick word?’

Marnie felt the usual panic about how to convey the fact that she couldn’t talk. She and the blonde had made eye contact so she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed. She waited for the woman to catch up. She was glamorous, heavily made-up. Strands of hair kept sticking to her lips. She brushed them away and smiled but at the same time her eyes moved up and down over Marnie’s body, taking in her appearance, categorising her; labelling her what? Goth? Bumpkin? Weirdo?

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