Someone You Know. Olivia Isaac-Henry

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      ‘I’m not a child, Dad.’

      ‘Don’t say anything to him, Tess,’ Dad says.

      Craven looks bemused.

      ‘Don’t you want to know, Mr Piper? If it were one of my daughters who had been murdered—’

      ‘It’s not one of your daughters though, is it? Tess is my daughter too and I’m not having you lot harassing her. We’ve already had journalists poking around. Don’t you think we’ve been through enough? You say you’re here to help but look what I found …’ Dad holds the notebook at arm’s length and starts to read. ‘V. Piper – detached – two question marks. T. Piper reliable witness – three question marks. Aunt and uncle hostile – exclamation mark.’ He glares at Craven as he throws the book to the floor. ‘Here to help? You’re here to set us up.’

      ‘I can assure you that’s not the case, Mr Piper. However painful, there has to be an investigation,’ Craven says. ‘And we need to ask questions of everyone involved from that time, including the family, if we’re to get to the truth.’

      ‘You lot aren’t interested in the truth. I remember from before. How had I coped since my wife died? Wasn’t it awful to be a man on my own? Didn’t I miss having a woman around the place? Did I love my daughter? Did it make me jealous, knowing she’d started getting interested in boys? I knew what they were asking. Making me ashamed to admit I loved my own daughter, twisting it into something dirty and disgusting.’

      I had no idea what Dad went through back then. I was shielded and kept safe. I had been a victim, but Dad had been a suspect.

      Craven picks the notebook up and starts to speak in a slow, even-toned voice, no doubt some training manual calming technique.

      ‘As a father myself, I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you,’ he says.

      ‘No, you can’t,’ Dad says. ‘No one can ever know.’

      ‘And we won’t be repeating those mistakes, Mr Piper.’

      Dad steps towards Craven.

      ‘Get out,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough.’

      ‘Mr Piper, please.’

      ‘Out.’

      Craven looks to me.

      ‘Perhaps you could come back another time,’ I whisper.

      Dad hears.

      ‘No, you can’t come another time. You’re just a snoop.’

      Craven has already moved to the hall. I follow him and shut the lounge door.

      ‘I can see your father’s upset, it’s understandable. But we’re not looking to implicate the family. DI Vilas hasn’t ruled out a stranger killing. I think the support we can provide…’

      There’s a roar and a crash from the lounge.

      ‘Yes, but not right now.’

      I virtually push Craven through the door and slam it shut, thankful the press have left for the night.

      I run through the hall and back to the lounge. The coffee table lies four feet from Dad, the remains of my sherry dripping down the wall opposite, the glass smashed to pieces on the floor.

      ‘I can’t do this again, Tess. I can’t.’

      Dad falls back onto the sofa and puts his head in his hands. I kneel down beside him.

      ‘We’ll get through this, Dad,’ I say.

      ‘No Tess, you don’t understand,’ he says. ‘This is never going to end. It’ll never be over.’

       Chapter 12

       Edie: September 1993

      ‘I followed him for twenty minutes and he didn’t see me,’ Tess said.

      It was late morning. Tess was in disguise, wearing a woolly hat and an old green anorak that Dad used for gardening. The sleeves swallowed up her arms and the hem hung well below her knees.

      ‘Where did he go?’ Edie asked.

      ‘Only to the newsagents and the chippie. He turned around a couple of times but he never spotted me.’

      Tess was taking her detective duties seriously. The investigation log was an A4-sized notebook, which she’d covered in the same cream with rosebuds wallpaper they’d used for their school textbooks. It was filled with diagrams and notes. She’d drawn a floor plan of the Vickers’ house, a mirror image of their own, with the addition of the small utility room at the back and a sketch of Mrs Vickers with her hair in a chignon.

      Edie had to admit the likeness was impressive. Less impressive were Tess’s conclusions. Valentina was definitely dead. It was just a case of finding her body. Possible hiding places: under the floorboards, in the freezer, buried on waste ground, submerged in the canal. On the front of the book, in thick black marker pen, was written: THE CASE OF THE MISSING CAKEMAKER.

      ‘That’s a really stupid title,’ Edie said.

      ‘Dr Watson always used titles like that for Holmes’ cases.’

      ‘That’s made up, Tess. Police cases are called things like operation something or other.’

      ‘Well, you can call it Operation Cakemaker, if you like, but it’s my book. This afternoon I’m going to go through his bin.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘Clues. He might’ve put Valentina’s clothes in there.’

      ‘She left three weeks ago.’

      ‘I know,’ Tess said. ‘I wish I’d thought of it sooner.’

      Edie wasn’t sure about spending the afternoon riffling through rotting vegetables. Mum rescued her.

      ‘Becca’s just rung. She’s invited us over.’

      ‘But we’ve got plans,’ Tess protested.

      ‘What plans?’ Mum asked.

      ‘Nothing,’ Edie said.

      ‘Good, get your coats. Your dad and Ray’ll come along later.’

      *

      Auntie Becca called it an Indian summer and insisted they sat outside.

      ‘It may be the last good weather we get this year.’

      Edie thought India was supposed to be hot, she was freezing, the low, bright sun was blinding her and the egg mayonnaise sandwich she was eating had fallen СКАЧАТЬ