I Let You Go

  I shut the door and stand there, looking at the cottage. The sitting room, which just a moment ago seemed so cosy and welcoming, now feels empty. I imagine a child – my child – playing on the rug in front of the fire. I think of Eve, and the niece and nephew growing up without me in their lives. I may have lost my son, but I still have a family, no matter what happened between us.

  I got on well with Eve when we were children, despite the four-year age gap between us. I looked up to Eve, and in turn she cared for me, seeming never to resent her baby sister tagging along. We were quite different; me with my unruly auburn mop, and Eve with poker-straight mouse-brown hair. We both did well at school, but Eve was more diligent than me, burying her head in a textbook long after I had flung my own across the room. Instead I spent hours in the art studio at school, or on the floor of the garage – the only part of our home where my mother allowed me to pull out my clay and paints. My fastidious sister would turn her nose up at such pursuits, squealing as she ran away from my outstretched arms, splattered with wet clay. ‘Lady Eve’, I called her one day, and the name stuck, long after we had grown up and built our own families. Eve secretly enjoyed the moniker, I always thought, as over the years I watched her take compliments for a wonderful dinner party, or beautiful gift-wrapping.

  We weren’t as close after Dad left. I could never forgive our mother for driving him away, and didn’t understand how Eve could do so. Nevertheless I miss my sister desperately, now more than ever. Five years of someone’s life is too much to lose over a throwaway comment.

  I look on my laptop and find the photos Bethan has asked for. I add three more that I want to put on the wall of the cottage in frames I’ll make from driftwood. They are all of the bay: all taken from exactly the same point, but each quite different. The bright blue water of the first picture, sunlight sparkling across the bay, gives way to the flat grey of the second photo, the sun barely visible in the sky. The third picture is my favourite: taken when the winds were so high it was all I could do to keep my balance on the clifftop, and even the gulls had given up their perpetual sweep of the skies. The photo shows black clouds streaking downwards as the sea hurls its waves in their faces. The bay was so alive that day, I had felt my heartbeat pulse through me as I worked.

  I add one more photo to my memory stick: a photo taken that first day I wrote in the sand, when I filled the beach with names from my past.

  Lady Eve.

  I can’t risk my sister knowing where I am, but I can tell her that I’m safe. And that I’m sorry.

  9

  ‘I’m going to Harry’s for lunch, boss, do you want anything?’

  Kate appeared in the doorway to Ray’s office. She wore tailored grey trousers and a close-fitting sweater, over which she had put on a light jacket, in preparation for heading out.

  Ray got to his feet and plucked his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I’ll come with you – I could do with some fresh air.’ He usually ate in the canteen, or at his desk, but lunch with Kate was a more appealing prospect. Besides, the sun was finally shining, and he hadn’t looked up from his desk since he got in at eight that morning. He deserved a break.

  Harry’s was busy, as always, with a queue that snaked along the counter and on to the pavement. It was popular with officers not only because of its proximity to the station, but because the sandwiches were sensibly priced, and quickly put together. There was nothing more frustrating for a hungry response cop than picking up an immediate before the lunch order turned up.

  They shuffled forward in the queue. ‘I can bring yours back to the office if you’re in a hurry,’ she said, but Ray shook his head.

  ‘I’m in no rush,’ he told her. ‘I’m going through the plans for Operation Break and I could do with some time out. Let’s eat in.’

  ‘Good idea. Break is the laundering job, right?’ Kate spoke quietly, mindful of the people around them, and Ray nodded.

  ‘That’s right. I can take you through the file, if you like, so you get a feel for how it’s come together.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  They ordered their sandwiches and found a couple of high stools in the window, one eye on Harry, who within minutes was waving their brown paper bags in the air. A pair of uniformed officers walked past the window and Ray raised his hand in greeting.

  ‘More fuel for the “CID don’t do any work” argument,’ he said to Kate with a laugh.

  ‘They don’t know the half of it,’ Kate said, picking tomato out of her sandwich and eating it separately. ‘I’ve never worked as hard as I did on the Jacob Jordan case. And all for nothing.’

  Ray couldn’t miss the bitterness in her voice. ‘It wasn’t for nothing, you know that. One day someone will talk about what they did, and word will spread, and we’ll have them.’

  ‘That’s not good policing, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ray wasn’t sure if he was amused or insulted by her directness.

  Kate put down her sandwich. ‘It’s reactive, not proactive. We shouldn’t be sitting back, waiting for intelligence to come to us: we should be out there looking for it.’

  It was like listening to an echo of himself in his early days as a DC. Or perhaps Mags, although he didn’t remember Mags being quite so assertive as Kate. She was eating her sandwich again now, but even that was done with a degree of determination. Ray hid a smile. She said exactly what came into her head, without any censorship or concern about whether it was her place to say it. She would ruffle a few feathers at the station, but Ray had no issue with plain-speaking. In fact he found it quite refreshing.

  ‘It really got to you, didn’t it?’ Ray said.

  She nodded. ‘I hate the fact that the driver’s still out there, thinking he’s got away with it. And I hate that Jacob’s mum left Bristol thinking we didn’t care enough to find out who did it.’ She opened her mouth to carry on, then looked away as though she had thought better of it.

  ‘What?’

  Her cheeks coloured slightly, but she raised her chin defiantly. ‘I haven’t stopped working on it.’

  Over the years, Ray had on several occasions uncovered festering paperwork that had been ignored by officers either too busy or too lazy to action it. But doing too much work? That was a new one.

  ‘It’s been in my own time – and nothing that would get you in trouble with the chief, I promise. I’ve been reviewing the CCTV footage, and checking through the Crimewatch appeal calls to see if we missed anything.’

  Ray thought of Kate sitting at home, case papers spread out on the floor, hours of grainy CCTV on the screen in front of her. ‘And you did that because you think we can find the driver?’

  ‘I did it because I don’t want to give up.’

  Ray smiled.

  ‘Are you going to tell me to stop?’ Kate bit her lip.

  That was precisely what he had been about to say. But she was so keen, so single-minded. Besides, even if she never got any further with the investigation, what harm could it do? It was the sort of thing he might once have done himself.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to tell you to stop. Mainly because I’m not entirely convinced it would make a difference if I did.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘But I want you to keep me up to speed with what you’re doing, and be sensible about how many hours you do. And this doesn’t take priority over live jobs. Deal?’

  Kate eyed him appraisingly. ‘Deal. Thanks, Ray.’

  He screwed up their paper bags into a ball. ‘Come on, we’d better head back. I’ll show you the Op Break file, then I need to get off home, else I’ll be in trouble. Again.’ He rolled his eyes in a mock grimace.

  ‘I thought Mags didn’t mind you working late?’ Kate said, as they made their way back to the station.

  ‘I don’t think we’re getting on too well lately,’ he said, feeling instantly disloyal. He rarely spoke about his personal life to people at work, except to Stumpy, who had known Mags for almost as long a
s Ray had. But he was hardly shouting his mouth off: it was only Kate.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ she laughed. ‘Don’t you know?’

  Ray gave a wry smile. ‘I don’t feel I know anything at the moment. It’s nothing I can put my finger on, just … oh, you know. We’re having problems with our eldest, Tom. He’s not settling in well at school, and he’s become really moody and insular.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Sounds like normal behaviour for that age,’ Kate said. ‘My mum tells me I was an absolute horror.’

  ‘Ha – I can believe that,’ Ray said. Kate aimed a punch at him and he laughed. ‘I know what you mean, but honestly, it’s really unusual behaviour for Tom and it happened almost overnight.’

  ‘Do you think he’s being bullied?

  ‘It has crossed my mind. I don’t like to ask too much in case he thinks I’m hassling him. Mags is better at that sort of stuff, but even she can’t get anything out of him.’ He sighed. ‘Kids – who’d have ’em?’

  ‘Not me,’ Kate said, as they reached the station. She swiped her access fob to open the side door. ‘Not for ages, anyway. There’s far too much fun to be had first.’ She laughed, and Ray felt a flash of envy for her uncomplicated life.

  They walked up the stairs. When they got to the second-floor landing, where the CID office was, Ray paused with his hand on the door. ‘About the Jordan job…’

  ‘It’s between you and me. I know.’

  She grinned, and Ray gave an inward sigh of relief. If the chief knew he still had resources – even unpaid ones – on a job she had expressly ordered closed, she would waste no time in letting him know what she thought. He’d be back in uniform before she’d put the phone down.

  Back in his office, he began working through the plans for Operation Break. The chief had asked him to take the lead on an investigation into alleged money-laundering. Two nightclubs in the city centre were being used as a front for a variety of illicit activities, and there was a wealth of intelligence to wade through. With both nightclub owners prominent figures in the business community, Ray knew the chief was testing him, and he intended to rise to the challenge.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon going through Team Three’s cases. The DS, Kelly Proctor, was off on maternity leave, and Ray had asked the most experienced DC on that team to act up. Sean was doing a good job, but Ray wanted to make sure nothing slipped through the net while Kelly was away.

  It wouldn’t be long before Kate could be put forward for some acting duties, he thought. She was so bright, she could teach some of his more experienced detectives a thing or two, and she’d enjoy the challenge. He remembered the flash of defiance as she told him what she’d been doing on the hit-and-run: there was no denying she was dedicated.

  He wondered what was driving her. Was it simply that she didn’t want to be beaten by a case, or could she really see a positive result from it? Had he been too quick to agree with the chief that they should close the file? He thought for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk. He was technically off duty now, and he had promised Mags he wouldn’t be late, but he could spare half an hour and still be home at a decent time. Before he could change his mind, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out Jacob’s case file.

  It was well over an hour later before he noticed the time.

  10

  ‘Ah, I thought it was you!’ Bethan catches up with me on the path to Penfach, out of breath and her coat flapping behind her. ‘I’m popping to the Post Office. It’s a good thing I bumped into you – I’ve got a bit of news.’

  ‘What is it?’ I wait for Bethan to get her breath back.

  ‘We had the sales rep in yesterday from one of the greetings cards companies,’ she says. ‘I showed him your photographs and he thinks they’d make great postcards.’

  ‘Really?’

  Bethan laughs. ‘Yes, really. He’d like you to get some samples printed up and he’ll pick them up when he’s next round our way.’

  I can’t stop the grin forming on my face. ‘That’s amazing news, thank you.’

  ‘And I’ll definitely stock them in the shop for you. In fact, if you can knock up a website and get a few photos online, I’ll send out the details to our mailing list. There are bound to be people who want a beautiful picture of somewhere they’ve been on holiday.’

  ‘I will,’ I tell her. I don’t have the faintest idea how to set up a website.

  ‘You could write messages as well as names, couldn’t you? “Good luck”, “Congratulations” – that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I could.’ I imagine a whole series of my cards slotted into a display rack, recognisable from the sloping ‘J’ I would use as a logo. No name, just an initial. They could have been taken by anyone. I have to do something to start bringing in some money. My outgoings are low – I eat next to nothing – but it won’t be long before my savings run out, and I don’t have any other source of income. Besides, I miss working. The voice in my head laughs at me, and I force myself to block it out. Why shouldn’t I set up another business? Why shouldn’t people buy my photographs, like they used to buy my sculptures?

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say.

  ‘Well then, that’s sorted,’ Bethan says, pleased. ‘Now, where are you off to today?’

  We have arrived in Penfach without my realising. ‘I thought I might explore the coast a bit more,’ I say. ‘Take some photos of different beaches.’

  ‘You won’t find a prettier one than Penfach,’ Bethan says. She checks her watch. ‘But there’s a bus leaves in ten minutes for Port Ellis – that’s as good a place as any to start.’

  When the bus arrives I climb on gratefully. It is empty, and I sit far enough back from the driver to avoid conversation. The bus picks its way inland through narrow roads, and I watch the sea retreat, then search for its reappearance as we approach our destination.

  The quiet road where the bus stops is sandwiched between stone walls that seem to run the length of Port Ellis, and there is no pavement, so I walk on the road towards what I hope is the centre of the village. I will explore inland, then head for the coast.

  The bag is half-hidden in the hedge; black plastic tied in a knot and slung into the shallow ditch by the side of the road. I almost miss it entirely, dismissing it as rubbish, discarded by holiday-makers.

  But then it moves, just slightly.

  So slightly I almost think I am imagining it, that it must be the wind rustling the plastic. I lean into the hedge and reach for the bag, feeling as I do the unmistakable sensation of something alive inside.

  I drop to my knees and rip open the bin bag. A fetid stench of fear and excrement hits me and I retch, forcing down nausea at the sight of the two animals inside. One puppy lies still, the skin on its back clawed raw by the frantic, wriggling dog beside it, its crying barely audible. I let out a sob and pick up the live puppy, cradling it inside my coat. I get clumsily to my feet and look around, calling to a man crossing the road a hundred metres further on.

  ‘Help! Please help!’

  The man turns and ambles towards me, seemingly unmoved by my panic. He’s old, and his back curves forward, pushing his chin on to his chest.

  ‘Is there a vet here?’ I ask, as soon as he is close enough.

  The man looks at the puppy, quiet and still now in my coat, and peers into the black bag on the floor. He makes a clicking sound, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘Alun Mathews’ son,’ he says. He jerks his head, presumably indicating where the son is to be found, and picks up the black sack, with its gruesome contents. I follow him, feeling the warmth from the puppy spreading through my chest.

  The surgery is a small white building at the end of a lane, with a sign above the door that reads ‘Port Ellis Veterinary Surgery’. Inside the tiny waiting room a woman sits on a plastic chair, a cat basket on her lap. The room smells of disinfectant and dog.

  The receptionist looks up from her computer.
‘Hello, Mr Thomas, what can we do for you?’

  My companion nods a greeting and hefts the black sack on the counter. ‘This one’s found a couple of pups dumped in the hedge,’ he says. ‘Bloody shame.’ He leans towards me and pats me carefully on the arm. ‘They’ll see you right,’ he says, and leaves the surgery, making the bell above the door jingle enthusiastically.

  ‘Thanks for bringing them in.’

  The receptionist wears a badge on her bright blue tunic, with the name ‘Megan’ embossed in black.

  ‘Lots of people wouldn’t, you know.’

  Keys swing from a lanyard studded with brightly coloured animal badges and charity tie pins, like the sort worn by nurses on a children’s ward. She opens the bag and blanches momentarily, before discreetly disappearing from view with it.

  Seconds later a door into the waiting room opens, and Megan smiles at me. ‘Do you want to bring this little one through? Patrick will see you straight away.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I follow Megan into an oddly shaped room with cupboards shoe-horned into the corners. At the far end is a kitchen counter and a small stainless steel sink, at which a man is washing his hands with lurid green soap that foams up his forearms.

  ‘Hello, I’m Patrick. The vet,’ he adds, then laughs. ‘But you probably guessed that.’ He is a tall man – taller than me, which is unusual – with dirty blond hair in no discernible style. Under his blue scrubs he wears jeans and a checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a smile that shows even white teeth. I guess him to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little older.

  ‘My name’s Jenna.’ I open my coat to take out the black-and-white puppy, who has fallen asleep and is making quiet snuffling noises, apparently unaffected by the traumatic demise of his brother.

  ‘And who do we have here?’ says the vet, taking the puppy gently from me. The action wakes up the dog, who flinches, cowering away from him. Patrick hands him back to me. ‘Would you hold him on the table for me?’ he says. ‘I don’t want to unsettle him even more. If it was a man who put the dogs in the bag, you might find it takes a while for him to trust them again.’ He runs his hands over the puppy, and I crouch down and whisper soothing chatter into his ear, not caring what Patrick thinks of my nonsense.