Page 19 of Worse Than Murder
I turn away and look down at the dogs. ‘Well, I think that answers a question I’ve been asking myself since I arrived. My days as a detective are over.’
Istay away from the bustle of the restaurant once the doors are open and the customers have arrived. They’re here for a night out in a stunning location with fine wines, delicious food and a warm atmosphere. The last thing anyone wants to see is a miserable-looking woman sitting alone in the corner on the verge of tears. That would put anyone off their Steak au Poivre.
I’m in the living room, upstairs, with Carl and the dogs. The TV is on in the background but I’m not paying it any attention. Philip has passed on his love of classic British sitcoms to his son and he’s currently working his way throughOnly Fools and Horses, having watchedOne Foot in the GraveandPorridgeover the past month. While Carl has one eye on the screen, he’s drawing up his plans for the basement on his tablet. He spent last weekend measuring up and put all the figures into an app he’s downloaded which creates a scale model of the entire lower ground floor area. What Carl is doing now is using his creative skills to maximise the space and turn it into a money-making machine for his parents in the hope that, if they use any of his ideas, he can ask for a share of the profits. I love how his mind works.
I look at the TV. I’ve seenOnly Fools and Horsesmany times over the years. James was a big fan. But, as much as I love the interplay between Del and Rodney, I’m not in the mood for comedy right now. I’m struggling to concentrate on much at all at present. My mind won’t settle. I haven’t finished a book in months, nor have I seen the end of any film.
‘I think I’m going to have an early night,’ I tell Carl, getting up from the sofa.
‘It’s not even nine o’clock yet.’
‘I know, but I’m tired.’ I’m not. I don’t know what I am, but I feel the need to be alone.
‘But Grandad’s just died,’ Carl says, pointing at the television.
‘Carl, I’ve literally lost count of the number of times I’ve watched this.’ I grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table as I pass him. ‘You’re going to love Uncle Albert, though.’
* * *
Despite my room being the smallest bedroom out of the four, it’s large enough to comfortably fit a king-size bed and has an en suite shower room which is better than my own at home. The walls are decorated in a rich navy blue and the luxurious cream curtains are so heavy they have to be drawn using a rope pulley system. Fancy. I close the door behind me. In here, the sounds from the restaurant below are barely a whisper and I can hardly hear the sounds from Hooky Street in the living room. I’m surrounded by silence. The only noise comes from the horrors inside my head screaming for attention.
It’s yet another stiflingly hot evening. I undress, throw back the cotton sheet and climb into the large firm-mattressed bed. The room is comfortable, cosy and welcoming. I have no idea how long I’ll be staying here; they’ve all said I can stay as long as I like. I know, at some point, I’ll have to return to reality, but it’s up to me to decide where my reality lies, and, right now, it’s not Sheffield.
Philip and Sally aren’t big readers and I didn’t think to bring any books with me from my massive collection at home. I found a well-thumbed PD James on a bookcase and started reading it last night. I managed two pages before I realised I hadn’t absorbed a single word I’d read. Tonight, I don’t even get to the bottom of one page.
‘Sorry, Phyllis,’ I say as I close the book and put it back on the bedside table.
I climb out of bed and leave the room. I pad, barefoot, across the corridor to the office three doors along. I’ve asked Sally if I can use their computer to access my emails, and on three occasions I’ve sat, staring at the login screen, and chickened out of typing in my password. Part of me wants to know what’s going on back in Sheffield. Have they caught the bastard who killed my family yet? Has he claimed another victim? I expect there’ll be plenty from Sian and Scott and Christan, asking, pleading with me, to get in touch. I’m not ready to do so yet, but I know if I read their emails, I’ll grab the phone and dial. I can’t let them see me like this.
This time, I don’t click on the Outlook icon. I go straight to the Google homepage and type in Celia and Jennifer Pemberton.
As the investigation intensified, it seemed like the whole village of High Chapel was questioned. There was a photograph of a drawn-looking Jack and Lynne Pemberton leaving a police station in Kendal, holding hands, faces turned away from the media onslaught.
I skim-read the articles and hit print on every single one. I absorb information better when it’s written down in front of me. I’m not a screen reader. There seemed to be very little for police to go on in the beginning. The only witness to the disappearance was five-year-old Alison and she couldn’t tell them anything, despite clearly being interviewed on many occasions for long periods of time. All she remembered was seeing her sisters in the back of a car being driven away. There was no mention of the colour or make of the car, how many people were in the front, of even if the car was speeding or what direction it was travelling in.
I find the quote from Inspector Lionel Bell to be worrying. He said the police would not stop until the girls were found and promised he would find them. A direct quote, one he shouldn’t have made, but clearly feeling he needed to reassure a panicked public they were doing everything they could. How did he feel after two weeks, a month, two months, a year, when the Pemberton twins still hadn’t been found? I wonder where he is now. He’s probably retired. The case will most likely have plagued him for the rest of his career. I bet, as he walked out of that station one last time, he felt as if he had unfinished business. There are some cases that refuse to let you go, and they nearly always involve children.
What became of the teacher, Alex Costello? Police said they were satisfied he had no involvement in the disappearance, but it required two intensive interrogations to reach that conclusion. Whatever they discovered hadn’t been enough to sway the public as Google took me to a tiny article not worth printing which stated that Alex Costello had handed in his resignation and would not be returning to teach High Chapel primary pupils that September. There was no quote from headteacher Flora West, nor from Alex. However, there was a letter written by a member of the public that seemed to put an end to Alex’s story.
With emotions running so high and accusations coming from every direction, it was no surprise that the investigation stalled before it could gain any traction.
A month on from the disappearance, Jack and Lynne Pemberton appeared on local television to keep the story in the public eye. I open another page and log on to YouTube, but I can’t find any clip of the news item. It’s probably been lost in the mists of time. There was a brief story in the local paper mentioning how worried the parents looked on television and how they pleaded for the safe return of their daughters, but that’s all the reference to any televised appeals I could find.
After that, nothing. The next mention in the news was three months later when the village was hit by an autumn storm, and, once again, the Pemberton family found themselves back on the front pages as they were faced with further tragedy.
‘Bloody hell.’
If there was ever a family that appeared to have been visited by a plague of locusts, the Pembertons were it. Twin girls playing close to their home innocently, taken in broad daylight, and their father swept away by a surging lake while trying to protect his surviving daughter. How had Lynne managed to stop herself from going mad? In her darkest moments, what had stoppedherfrom downing a bottle of vodka and a hundred paracetamol? Same as me, possibly: a tiny, minute trace of hope.
When I lost James, I thought my world had ended. The pain was too much. It was the strength of my mum and dad, Harriet, and my friends, that kept me afloat. Lynne, back in 1992, had only her five-year-old daughter, Alison, and she wouldn’t have been much comfort. She was too young to comprehend the magnitude of what was going on around her. How had Lynne survived? How does a person come back from losing two of their children and their husband within the space of three months?
I had closure (horrible word). James was dead. He was buried. I have a grave I can go and visit. My mum and dad have graves I can lay flowers on and pay my respects. What does Lynne have? Bless her, Alison has grown up in the shadow of tragedy and horror. No wonder she’s screaming for answers and clutching at any hint of a possibility to find the truth.
But then, the twist in the tale: had Jack Pemberton really died on the night of the storm?
Six sightings of Jack within two months are a significant number that Inspector Bell really shouldn’t have ignored. Was Susie Allinson questioned thoroughly by police? Was CCTV at the bank checked to verify her claims? I wonder what Lynne has made of all this. It’s given her hope, or maybe false hope, or maybe it’s just stirred everything back up again. She can’t rest, mourn, move on, while there are still so many unanswered questions.
On the tenth anniversary of the disappearance of the twins, the local paper ran several stories to keep the investigation alive and draw people’s attention to the fact it was still unsolved. It seems to be the case that has defined the area, and the reporters were keen to capitalise on what made High Chapel stand out. There was a potted update, which I printed, an interview with Lynne, and, surprisingly, what appears to be the only interview I can find conducted with Alison.
