The Well (31 page)

Sammy felt suddenly cold and instinctively backed away; she returned to the girl, looking more deeply within her to find the boy.

Sammy didn’t like digging in people’s minds – if they were thinking something, it was easy for her to read the thoughts, but if she had to dig, she knew instinctively that she could hurt them. Sammy went into Becca’s mind, as gently as she could – and then recoiled in horror. (At that moment, deep in the well, Becca winced as a sharp flash of pain cut into her, just behind her eyes.) The boy wasn’t a boy any more; his mind was a gap that didn’t exist and his body was just rotting flesh, stinking so badly that the girl who had once almost loved him now couldn’t bear to think about him.

Sammy jolted, shocked, spilling her milk on her skirt. “Sorry, Mummy,” she said, hoping that her mother hadn’t caught any of her briefly unguarded thoughts.

Abby took the cup from her daughter. “That’s OK – you go and get changed, I’ll clean the sofa. You might as well put your nightie or pyjamas on now, anyhow, even if it is a bit early for bed.”

Sammy disappeared towards her bedroom, glad to have a few moments alone both to cry and to collect her thoughts. And just time enough also to take some tablets from the bathroom cabinet back to her bedroom, crush them and hide the powder in Lady Mango’s little plastic handbag. The bottle said: TAKE TWO TABLETS BEFORE BEDTIME, so Sammy had crushed four. Then she thought again and added another two. And then another two.

Sammy knew from her mother’s mind what the tablets did. They’d been on the highest shelf of the bathroom cabinet, so Sammy had used the chair in the bathroom to reach them.

Back in the living room, Helen asked, “Worried?”

Abby nodded. “Damn right. It’s like she’s closed down.”

“It’s a hell of a lot for her to take in. Give her time.”

“I guess,” said Abby, reluctantly. “It would be easier if she’d talk, though.”

“Ah,” said Helen. “So that’s it? You feel she’s got the advantage. She can read you, but you can’t read her?”

Abby nodded.

“I think that’s something you just have to get used to. Look at it from my perspective – I don’t know anything that my eyes and ears don’t tell me.”

Sammy returned, carrying Lady Mango.

“Sammy?” asked Abby.

“Do you want to talk? About what I said today?”

Sammy shook her head, and coughed.

“You scared to talk?”

“No. Well, a little. Yes – quite a bit.”

Abby patted her knee. “Come on,” she said. “Give me a hug.”

Sammy sat on her mother’s knee and wrapped her arms around her neck.

“Better?” asked Abby.

Sammy nodded.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” said Abby. “It’s your choice. But sometimes keeping things to yourself makes them harder to deal with.”

Sammy was quiet. Then she said, “It’s just that there’s so much hurt. I have to shut it out. The girl and her Mummy. They’re both very upset.”

Abby pulled her daughter close. “I know, baby.”

“No, Mummy, you don’t. When they feel it, I feel it. It hurts me like it hurts them. I have to keep it out.”

“Can you do that?” asked Helen.

Sammy nodded. “Mostly, if I try hard. Or if I think about other things.”

“Then that’s what you should do,” said Abby. “If I could stop this happening, I would. It’s harder for you than anyone – and I don’t want you hurt. But it will be over, soon.”

Sammy said nothing.
Over when the girl dies,
she thought.

“Do you want to sleep with me and Helen tonight?” asked Abby.

“Can I?” asked Sammy.

“Sure,” said Abby. “I know when a little girl needs extra cuddles.”

Sammy hugged her mother. She loved her very much, but it upset her that she didn’t understand.

What Mummy and Helen are doing is wrong
, she thought, not understanding their motives despite knowing what they were.

They think they don’t have a choice
, thought Sammy, sadly
. But they do. It’s up to us. No one else will help. Anyhow, it’s kind of our family’s fault. They won’t listen to me, I’m just a kid. But the girl needs help – soon. If Mummy won’t do it, I will.

10

Randle spent most of the day laying low, surfing the Internet. The story of the missing girl had made the national news websites, although it had not yet been covered in any real depth. The children’s parents had made an appeal for information; this was now on quite a few of the news websites and Randle watched it a couple of times. He’d seen the girl’s mother on a few occasions; she’d even asked him to produce a few extra prints of one of his photographs for her. He didn’t know the boy’s father – although he had seen him drop the two children off at school once or twice.

Randle was equally scared and excited, as if he were the lead player in a dangerous game; a one-shot game. He knew that he’d have to be careful. Depending on when the nosy policeman was found, it might not be long before his picture was on those same news websites. He’d have to move fast.

Randle had also decided that social networking was definitely a wonderfully useful thing. Armed with both Becca and Hannah’s full names, it wasn’t difficult to find their on-line profiles. Neither girl had their security settings especially high, so Randle was able to access not only their photographs but also many of their conversations with friends.
As a policeman’s daughter
, he thought,
she really should know better.

Browsing through the pictures, he decided that he definitely preferred Becca: she looked young for her age, which was more to his taste. She was neither plain nor beautiful, yet had slightly quirky features that made her striking. Hannah was, if anything, much prettier – although where Becca looked young for her age, Hannah looked a little older: she could easily pass for sixteen. The photographs gave him an exciting insight into Hannah’s life. Especially rewarding were the parties and holidays with friends and family; Randle had lingered over those:
very nice
, he had thought, looking at pictures of her in a bikini.

Randle’s more sensible, measured side nagged at him – telling him that Hannah was too dangerous a choice of target. It would be far, far easier to pick any other girl at random – and someone who was younger than Hannah, too.

But the animal side of him had taken over. She was in his sights and, unlike Becca, he didn’t want her to slip away. And of course, there was the extra pleasure in knowing that whatever pain he caused her would be felt sooner or later by the nosy parker cop.

He had got the girl’s home address from her father’s wallet. He knew where she went to school. He could even guess her most likely route. If he were quick and forceful, if she were alone, even if only for a few minutes, he could take her. Take her, then bring her back here – where no one knew he was. Then he could do what he wanted. Time and again: for days, with a little luck.

11

“Would you mind waiting in here, just a minute?” asked Jenny Greenwood. She showed Sarah and Jim into the smaller of the police station’s two tiny interview rooms.
Neither comfortable nor comforting
, she thought,
but it’s only for a moment.

She walked down to the main office and stood at the door, waiting to catch Stephen Carter’s eye. Stephen was on the phone, engrossed in conversation, but once he spotted Jenny, he quickly hung up and walked over to her.

“They here?” he asked.

Jenny nodded. “In interview room one. How’s Ed? Any improvement?”

Stephen frowned. “No. He’s very badly hurt. Several ribs are broken, some more than once. His skull’s fractured in two places. Jaw’s broken in two. Bleeding inside the left eye and a detached retina. To be honest, he’s a mess. I’m surprised he was able to talk when I found him.”

“You OK?” Jenny touched his arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Stephen. “I’ve never seen anyone in such a mess, at least not anyone I know.” He lowered his voice. “To be honest, I’m fucking angry. OK, Ed probably made it worse, steaming in there drunk – but at least he smoked the bastard out. If I get to Tom Randle first, I’m not sure I’ll be reading him his rights.”

Jenny looked around. “Steve –”

“Don’t worry, Jen, I’m just sounding off.” He took a deep breath. “At least I think I am.”

“What about his wife?” asked Jenny.

“Julia? Very upset. She’s at the hospital now, with their daughter. We’ve assigned Lucy to them, round the clock. Well, to the girl, really.”

“No luck with the hunt?”

“Nothing. This guy’s a fucking ghost. Plus, we’re still waiting on more people to come in. We need to move faster on this and we don’t really have enough bodies on it yet. We’ve moved most of the team to Randle’s flat, places he goes, his routes to and from school and so on. No results. We really need to widen the net. We got a few calls following the appeal, but all of them sound like cranks. One, a woman, we’re taking more seriously, but even that one’s weird.”

“How so?”

“The call came from a really remote phone box. It’s neither on the way to or from anywhere of note. Like it was deliberately chosen; not just someone nipping out. We’re following it up, though, but that waters down our manpower even more. We’re looking all the way between Hawksleigh and Manchester for God’s sake. And all the bloody way between Hawksleigh and here.” He took a breath. “Come on, let’s get it done then.”

They walked together to the interview room, where Jim was sitting and Sarah had been pacing until they entered. They greeted each other and Jenny led them to the second interview room. Before they entered, she said, “I need to tell you that this will be upsetting. You need to prepare yourself a little.” She opened the door.

On the table were two cardboard storage boxes, without lids. Stephen asked them all to sit down.

“This is some of the stuff we’ve found at the suspect’s residence,” he said.

“Some?” said Sarah, incredulous.

Stephen nodded. “This is, as far as we can tell, everything that’s related to Rebecca. We’re still searching the flat.”

Sarah began to reach inside one of the boxes, but Stephen stopped her. “We can look at some of these in a moment,” he said. “But first, I want you to take a look at this.”

He reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a plastic bag, within which was Becca’s scrunchie. He passed it to Sarah.

“Do you recognise this?” he asked.

The plastic bag was far too large for the small item within it. Stuck on the front of the bag was a form, headed
EVIDENCE
, in bold. The form had dozens of fields, of which only a few had been filled in. Within the bag, she could see the scrunchie.

Sarah looked over it, tears flowing from her eyes. She remembered what it had been like emptying her mother’s house after she had died; boxing up keepsakes, throwing out what had once been treasured possessions, like so much rubbish. This felt exactly the same.
If something belongs to Becca
, she thought,
is it still hers when she’s gone?

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think so. It could be hers. But it’s like any other – you can get them from dozens of shops. But possibly.”

“There were a few hairs on it,” said Jenny, softly. “We’ve sent them for analysis. I’d like to see if I can find any in Rebecca’s room – on a hairbrush, perhaps, for matching.”

Sarah felt the room close in around her. The more time that passed, the more desperate she became – and the more she felt, deep in her soul, that she’d never see Becca again.

“Can I take it out of the bag?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, no,” replied Jenny.

Sarah hesitated. “Can I open it?”

Jenny and Stephen glanced at each other. He shrugged. Jenny said, “Please don’t touch it.”

Sarah opened the bag, lifted it to her nose and inhaled. There was a faint smell, but Sarah couldn’t be sure it was Becca. She inhaled again. “I don’t know,” she said.

“It’s OK,” said Jenny. “It’s doubtful you can smell anything on something so small.”

“I’m her mother,” said Sarah, distraught. “I’ve known her for fourteen years. I should know.
I should
.”

Jenny and Stephen sat for a minute, while Sarah felt the scrunchie through the bag, sniffing it every so often. Jim looked on, his hand on Sarah’s arm.

Jenny didn’t want to show Sarah the photographs, but knew that they couldn’t withhold them. She put on a pair of latex evidence-handling gloves, took out one of the photograph albums and passed it over, along with a second set of gloves.

“If you don’t mind wearing these?” she asked.

Sarah shook her head, donned the gloves and picked up the book.

Sarah looked at it. On the cover was written
REBECCA RICHARDS
. She felt nauseous, but opened the cover and flicked through its pages. They were all of Becca – indeed, she’d already seen many of the photographs. Some, she was even familiar with – and at least two she had copies of. Then she remembered where she’d got them.

“The crossing man,” she said. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

12

Sammy pretended to be asleep until both her mother and Helen had nodded off. Their sleep was natural: the crushed sleeping tablets remained unused in Lady Mango’s handbag.

This would have been much easier
, she thought,
if I’d not agreed to sleep with my Mum and Helen.
But Sammy had sensed that her mother would have been worried if she’d insisted on sleeping on her own. Sammy knew she had to behave as normally as possible: if her mother realised what she was thinking, she’d be horrified.

Not that Sammy wasn’t scared. She was – deeply. She was about to do something that she knew might be brave, but was also dangerous. In truth, she didn’t feel as if she had a choice:
someone
had to do
something
.

When she was sure that both grown-ups were soundly asleep, she slowly eased her way out of the bed. It would have been impossible if she’d been between Abby and Helen, but she’d chosen to sleep on the edge, at the side of her mother. As she put her feet on the floor, she worked to stifle a cough.