Читать книгу Lies Between Us: a tense psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming - Ronnie Turner - Страница 12

He runs his finger across the photograph in what is nearly a caress. He scans the child’s face, and it is as if a map has been drawn across it, the red lines navigating the black and blue bruises, traversing the blotchy skin and the swollen, bloodshot eyes as if to reach some unknown destination. He touches the girl’s face, hovering over her parted lips where blood has dribbled down and dried on her chin. She peers up at him, a silent plea in her eyes.

He feels a body brush past him and then hears a muffled gasp somewhere off to his right. He catches Jules just as she slips to the ground and sits her on the staircase. She weeps into her hands, hiding her eyes from the photo, as if it will burn itself onto her retinas. She can’t bear to see it and yet he can’t take his eyes off it. He knows it will come; within minutes an avalanche of emotion, bearing an almost unimaginable force, comes crashing into him. Turning the photo, he reads the inscription and his hand begins to tremble. His wife, sensing the change in the air, glances up at him, then down at the photo, hands falling to her swollen stomach as if to protect her baby from the photo and the assailant who has suddenly marched into their lives. She takes a ragged breath and stares at the typed message on the back, Bonnie’s scrawl signing it off with her name.

Do you remember that day in 1992, John? Do you remember what happened?

John swipes his thumb across the six-year-old girl’s writing and shuffles to the sideboard, feeling as if he is wading through mud. He grabs the phone and dials.

One… two… three…

Four… five… six…

He counts the seconds until the policewoman answers and he explains what’s happened in dull tones.

And then it comes. He covers his weeping eyes as his legs give way and the photo of his daughter flutters to the ground.

John watches Detective Chief Inspector Alice Munroe gently deposit the photo in a clear bag, her gloved hands delicately touching its edges. She tells him it will be sent off and subjected to a forensic examination, as will the envelope, to see if any fingerprints or DNA (aside from their own) can be found. But he doubts it. He doubts this person would be so foolish.

Since the DCI’s arrival and her cool, professional introduction, he has been bombarded with questions about his past. What happened to him in 1992? What does he remember? Does he have any idea who this person is? Has anyone ever expressed any ill feeling towards him? What was his childhood like? Who are his parents? Who were his close friends growing up? Has he ever had any enemies?

He answers all their questions patiently, a sickness in his stomach threatening to overpower him. Jules sits beside him during his interrogation, rubbing her bump with her left hand, her right entwined in John’s. A silent support.

DCI Alice Munroe explains what will happen in the following days and the severity of their situation. But despite trying to digest every word, the flurry of useless sentences pass over his head. In one ear and out the other. Things like this don’t happen. Not to him. His family. This kind of thing belongs on the television, on the radio, in the newspaper. Local girl missing. Police suspect kidnapping. John blanches at that word. Kidnapping. His daughter. His sweet, kind, funny little girl. Gone. Taken. He rubs his neck, a tick that has, despite his mother’s incessant correction, followed him doggedly into his thirties. His neck turns red and blotchy as he rubs it, working the tension and panic through his fingers.

Munroe flicks her eyes to his hands, taking note. He doubts anything goes unnoticed. She runs her nail along the inside of her little finger – an exercise to help her concentrate perhaps – legs crossed, back straight, expression professionally cool. As if this sort of thing happens every day. It probably does, he supposes. For her. In his small lounge, on the tired, sagging sofa, two realities converge. One that walks on the periphery of loss and fear and devastation constantly; the other residing firmly in what was, until a few days ago, perfectly normal. Good. Happy. But any semblance of normal life has been washed away. Their lives are stripped bare now.

John looks at Munroe and wonders how she bears this every day. He can’t tell if she has children but, judging from the pale skin peeping out from underneath her wedding band, he guesses she has been married for many years. He silently asks her questions in his mind. Do you have children? Do you have a daughter? How would you feel if she had been taken? What if it was your fault?

He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut to quell any more tears. The questions have penetrated and sieved through nearly every inch of his past. All his memories have been invaded and examined. Albums from his childhood, given to him by his parents, have been bagged and taken away; any letters, written or received, have met a similar fate. They have asked him who his friends are. For his agent’s and publisher’s details. If he has ever been involved in any fights, brushes with the law. No, he tells them. No, no, no. The longer the DCI and her colleagues sit in his lounge, the more personal the questions become. When did he and Jules meet? When were they married? Were there ever any jealous girlfriends? Boyfriends? Did he ever notice anyone watching him, studying him? Again, he answers in the negative. They seem surprised at how cooperative he is, and he wonders if they usually have to tease answers out of people, soothe their grief and trick them to get at the truth. But everything he remembers, he offers them. Every morsel of his past, he gives them to study. They are his only hope. Bonnie’s only hope.

‘You’ll be provided with an FLO – Family Liaison Officer – to help in any way, support you, talk through the situation, and explain where we are with the investigation. But first, as there’s a suggestion you and your wife might be in danger, we’d like to relocate you.’ She looks at them both, studying their reactions.

They nod but neither one of them cares. John wraps his arm round Jules, wondering for the umpteenth time why anyone would target them, target Bonnie. ‘Because of you,’ a small voice in his mind whispers. ‘Because of you.’ But why? He’d had a normal childhood. Been a good boy. Done his chores, spent time with his friends, done well in school. Said please and thank you. Hadn’t hurt or upset anyone. He’d never wanted to. He isn’t a bad person. Or perhaps he is… His daughter is a ‘hostage’ – at least that’s what the police are calling her. His little girl. Alone. Frightened. And he is helpless. Useless. It is his own fault.

Jules squeezes his hand. Suddenly he is overwhelmed by the urge to hold her. When Munroe and her colleagues eventually leave, they climb the staircase, each step a hardship, each breath a toil, to their daughter’s room. There isn’t enough space for them to lie side by side on Bonnie’s small bed so John leans back on the headrest and holds Jules to his chest, and she cradles their unborn baby. They count the stars they helped Bonnie glue to the ceiling over a month ago and bring forth her smiling face and the sound of her laughter as they danced beneath them.