Page 117 of Worse Than Murder
‘I’m not sure. What can you tell me of the following morning? What time did you get up?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did your mum tell you that your father was missing?’
‘I think so, yes. She told me he’d gone away. He wasn’t feeling well. That’s what she told me for a while.’
‘What did you do that day?’
‘I really don’t remember much at all. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Don’t try and force a memory. That will only make things worse.’
‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ Alison says. ‘I can tell by your face that your mind is racing at a hundred miles per hour.’
I take a breath. ‘I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Alison. You could be suffering with false memories, getting your dates and events mixed up, which is reasonable and understandable. However, at the back of my mind, I’m wondering whether you might have been drugged.’
‘What?’ she exclaims. Her voice echoes around the open space. ‘Drugged. Why? Who by?’
‘Possibly by your father but, given the number of sightings of him over the years, that makes no sense. On the other hand, I’m starting to think your father is being painted as having a bigger role in the disappearance of your sisters, and he’s actually perfectly innocent in all this.’ I suddenly forget Alison is there. It’s as if I’m just thinking aloud. ‘Jack suffered with depression. Back then, it was seen as a weakness. It’s possible someone could have taken advantage of that and used him as a scapegoat.’
‘The sightings of my dad. They might not be my dad, might they?’ Alison asks, her voice cracking with tears.
I look at her. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s been thirty years. If whoever it is has been living rough all that time, his appearance will have changed beyond all recognition. Maybe people are seeing a homeless man and assuming it’s my dad because he’s never been found.’
‘Is that what you’re thinking now? That the sightings are false.’
‘I don’t know.’
She looks despondent. The hope is fading from her eyes.
‘Who do you talk to about your past?’
‘I talk to my mum sometimes. We can’t talk about it for long. It upsets her. Iain is more receptive to ideas and theories. He listens to me.’
‘Does he offer theories of his own?’
‘Sometimes. He thinks the sightings might be of Dad. He’s angry with him. Still. Even after all this time. If it’s Dad, I’d love him to make contact, but I’m worried what Uncle Iain will do if he sees him. He hates Dad. I think…’
‘Go on,’ I prompt her when she stops.
‘I think Iain believes Dad killed Celia and Jennifer.’
‘Is that what you think, too?’
‘If he did, there’s only one clear motive, isn’t there?’ She looks at me with tears running down her face. ‘He abused them and killed them to cover up what he was doing. My dad was a child abuser. And if that’s true, I have to ask myself if he abused me, too. And I can’t remember, Matilda. I can’t remember anything.’
Alison collapses into me and I hold her tight. It’s not the right time to tell her my theory that the mystery man might not be her father but could be Travis Montgomery. But then, I suppose it doesn’t matter which one of them it is. If whoever it is was abusing the twins and possibly abused Alison, they’ve been lurking on the periphery all this time for a very dark reason which may come to light now that the girls have been found.
Adele Kean is not happy. Sitting behind the wheel of her Porsche 911, she looks around at the mess. The floor is littered with crumbs and dog hair. There are scuff marks on the front passenger seat and the steering wheel is sticky. There is also an underlying smell of something Adele can’t quite put her finger on, but the screwed-up McDonald’s paper bag in the side pocket of the door gives a hint of what it could be. She shakes her head. Matilda is definitely a changed woman. She was always so particular about her own car. The stress, anxiety, and depression she’s currently going through are taking over her life. Everything else takes a back seat, including hygiene. She hopes this investigation into the Pemberton twins she’s working on will help pull her out of her slump and show her that, despite her loss, life continues.
She reaches across to the glove box and pulls it open, hoping the packet of wet wipes she keeps inside are still there. As she reaches in, her hand touches Matilda’s iPhone. She notices it still hasn’t been looked through: all the notifications are still showing on the locked screen. Matilda must have hidden it in there on the way back to the restaurant yesterday.
‘Sneaky cow,’ Adele says to herself.
Steering wheel wiped, Adele sets off, leaving the restaurant and the Lake District behind her. She’s heading for Royal Preston Hospital where the remains of Celia and Jennifer Pemberton have been taken. The postmortem has been carried out by Dr Boyd Hailstones, a man Adele has crossed paths with several times over the years. They’ve become good friends and often share research and information. During the Manchester Arena bombing in 2017, Adele and Boyd worked tirelessly together on all twenty-three victims.
