At 7.30 a.m. I FaceTime Finn. I know Gavin probably thinks I’m being a control freak and has told me on more than one occasion that he can cope with Finn by himself, thank you very much. The ‘I am more than capable: after all I do run a multi-national finance company’ lecture I often get. But it’s not just so I can make sure Finn remembers to take his packed lunch and brush his teeth: I miss him and want him to go to school knowing I’m thinking of him.
Finn answers with a yawn. His lovely sandy brown hair is tousled, the cowlick （so like Gavin’s） is sticking up and he’s still in his favourite Minecraft pyjamas. I ache to wrap my arms around him and bury my nose in his familiar biscuity smell.
‘Good morning, handsome,’ I say, while he groans and pulls a face at me, even though his green eyes twinkle. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Okay. I’ve got a maths test today.’
‘Oh, no, that’s not fun. Did Dad help you revise last night?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nah. He was working.’
I feel a tug to my heart. ‘Did Nanna pop over?’ I’m so grateful my mum lives only a few streets away.
‘Yes, but she’s worse at maths than you are,’ he jokes. It’s a running theme in our house, my lack of maths skills. Gavin is the one who is good with numbers.
‘I hope you didn’t say that to Nanna.’ I laugh. ‘And are you looking after Rolo?’ Rolo is our black-and-white cat, the size of a small pig.
I make a mental note to call Mum later and ask about Gavin. My pride won’t allow me to ask him when the space he so desperately needed from me will have been enough. Or if he still loves me or sees a future in our marriage. So, even though I want to scream and rage at him and demand answers, I’m doing my best to be the mature one. For now.
From somewhere out of shot I hear Gavin’s voice calling Finn for breakfast. ‘Yep, Rolo’s fine. Don’t worry about him. Gotta go,’ he says.
‘Love you, little man,’ I say, blowing him kisses.
‘Love you too, Mum,’ he replies, and my heart feels like it’s being crushed. It was always Mummy until fairly recently.
Finn moves from the screen but he hasn’t exited FaceTime so I have a view of his messy bedroom and the Harry Potter Lego constructions he’s displayed proudly on his shelf. I’m about to turn off my screen when I hear something else and I freeze.
It sounds like the unfamiliar laugh of a woman.
7
Brenda Hawthorn lives in a pebbledash bungalow on top of a hill overlooking Stafferbury. I push my way through the wooden gate that’s nestled between two thick rose bushes that I imagine to be glorious in the summer but are now just thorny and ugly. The rain has stopped and a wintry sunlight spills onto the pavement, refracting in the puddles and causing me to squint. I should have brought my sunglasses. Despite the sun it is cold with a bitter wind and I’m grateful for my bobble hat. I can’t stop thinking about that woman’s laugh. Why was there a woman in my house?
Brenda opens the door after my first knock. I tower over her stocky frame. She’s around seventy and has a no-nonsense look about her in her sensible plaid skirt, a cream polo-neck jumper and no makeup. She has on delicate gold pear-drop earrings, which seem at odds with the rest of her attire. Her face is weathered and slightly tanned, and her eyes crinkle warmly behind black-framed glasses.
‘Jenna, nice to meet you,’ she says, thrusting out her hand and shaking mine vigorously. ‘Come in, come in.’ I step over the threshold into her warm hallway just as a shaggy dog trots towards me and pushes my leg with its nose. ‘Don’t mind Seamus. He loves people, don’t you, boy?’
I bend down to stroke his wiry head. ‘What breed is he?’ I ask, more out of politeness than anything else. I’m a cat person.
‘Oh, he’s a mix of all sorts. He’s got some kind of sheepdog in him, I know that much.’
I follow Brenda into a compact kitchen that fans out into a garden room. ‘This is lovely,’ I say, as I notice the views. From here I can see the church spire and the rooftops of Stafferbury. The house has an air of solitude and I suspect she lives alone. I make myself comfortable in one of the wicker armchairs by the window and open the phone app my editor recommended. Brenda looks slightly horrified as I plug in my external microphone. ‘You don’t mind if I record you?’ I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.
‘Sure,’ she says, sounding anything but. ‘So you’re making a podcast? I’m not really au fait with all this technology nonsense.’ I’m tempted to tell her that neither am I and this is all new for me. But I decide against it. I don’t want her thinking I’m unprofessional and backing out.
She lowers herself carefully into the armchair opposite, wincing slightly. ‘Hip problems,’ she explains, and indicates the spread of croissants and other pastries on the glass coffee-table. ‘Help yourself. Coffee?’
I ask for black, no sugar, and she leans forwards to pour me a cup. I’m itching to help her but I don’t want to offend her. So instead I busy myself setting up my phone and camera on a little tripod on the table. I tested it before I left home yesterday and it picks up sound surprisingly well. I make sure to angle the microphone towards where she’s sitting.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I say, as Brenda pushes a coffee cup in my direction. ‘I know we spoke on the phone but it’s lovely to meet you in person.’
‘Likewise.’ She smiles, settling back in her chair and sipping her drink. I glance around the room. There are no photographs of children or grandkids, no wedding pictures, no clue as to what kind of life she leads. The bungalow is small, simple, with beautiful views and a pretty garden, but it seems cut off somehow with its high position over the town’s rooftops. She’s making an effort not to look at the mini-tripod in front of her, instead fixing her eyes on me. ‘It’s such an interesting and perplexing case. It’s one of my career regrets that I hadn’t managed to crack it before I retired. It was literally as if those three girls just disappeared into thin air.’
‘Can you give me your recollection of exactly what happened that night?’
She takes a sip of her coffee and smacks her lips together. ‘Well, a nine-nine-nine call was received at around one twenty p.m.,’ she says confidently, and I’m impressed she remembers the details so well. She must have worked on hundreds of cases, yet this is obviously the one that keeps her awake at night. The riddle she’s never been able to solve. ‘The call was made by a local man called Ralph Middleton. He claims he arrived at the scene after the car had crashed and only eighteen-year-old Olivia Rutherford, the driver, was in the wreck. She had to be cut free by paramedics. At that point we had no reason to believe there had been anyone else in the car.’
‘Right,’ I say, taking an almond croissant and ripping into it. ‘When did you realize that Olivia’s friends had been in the car too?’
‘A colleague of mine received a phone call the next day from Sally Thorne’s father to say his daughter hadn’t come home.’
The croissant suddenly turns to cardboard in my mouth as I think of Finn and fast forward to his future teenager self, how frantic I would be if he didn’t come home after a night out. My wonderful, warm, funny, sensitive son. It’s painful as I swallow.