Page 20 of Worse Than Murder
On the twentieth anniversary in 2012, there was less coverage in the local paper, and I can’t find anything printed nationally. Next year will be the thirtieth anniversary, and I wonder if even the local press will bother writing anything. Lynne, Alison and Iain will never forget. The anniversary will be a difficult day for them to get through, but they will remember whether it’s 11 August, 11 January or 11 October. The key players in a tragedy never forget, despite everyone around them moving on. I speak from experience.
I google Lionel Bell. He interests me; or, rather, his silence interests me. How did the failure to find out what happened to the twins shape his career? Was it something he continued to return to, did it keep him awake at night like so many of mine have set up home in my head?
There is a raft of stories where Bell has played a key role in the local community, but nothing of the magnitude of the missing twins. On the announcement of his retirement, a story with the headline ‘MISSING PEMBERTON TWINS WILL HAUNT BELL TO HIS GRAVE’ reveals how Lionel still thinks of the girls and how he hopes to provide an answer to Lynne, Alison and Iain. It ends with him praying there will be a solution in his lifetime, but the article lacks emotion. Is that Lionel washing his hands of the police force now he is leaving or is it sloppy writing by the journalist?
I’ve never trusted journalists. There’s one in particular who I’d happily see chopped up and placed inside a woodchipper. I suppose I shouldn’t tar all journalists with the same brush. I’m sure they’re not all shysters like Danny fucking Hanson. There are probably plenty out there who are decent people. What’s the collective noun for a group of journalists? A scum of journalists, probably.
I lean back in my chair and stretch. I’m getting stiff from sitting in one position for so long. I turn off the computer, pick up the reams of paper I’ve printed off and return to my bedroom where I climb into bed and begin to read through them all once again.
Something’s wrong. Something doesn’t sit well with me, and I’m not sure what.
In cases of this nature, the investigation always looks to the family of those who went missing. Jack and Lynne, and the rest of the family, had been extensively questioned by police at the time of Celia and Jennifer’s disappearance. Why? Couldn’t they provide an alibi? Their neighbour said police had asked intrusive and insensitive questions about the Pembertons. What had they been implying? Were Jack and Lynne suspects in their daughters’ disappearance? If so, why wasn’t Alison taken away from them for her own protection, even temporarily? Or was that the reason why she was sent to live with her aunt and uncle for a while?
If the girls were taken by a stranger– a passing paedophile, for example– then it was more than likely that after thirty years both girls were dead. They would have been dead long before now. They could have been taken, like Carl was, and sold to a couple unable to have children. Perhaps they were now living a life in blissful ignorance under different names. Were they still together or had they been split up? It sounded far-fetched but, in my experience, the truth is often stranger than fiction and anything is possible.
They obviously hadn’t been kidnapped for ransom as no demand was made and the Pembertons weren’t a rich family. Had there been a grudge against the Pembertons? Was the kidnap in revenge for something they’d done?
I had been hoping the local newspaper had run a photograph of Jack’s car abandoned at the side of the lake. I’d like to see how submerged it was. Had Jack got into difficulty due to the storm and been swept away or had he deliberately walked out into the storm? In cases such as this, with missing children and a father showing signs of depression, it’s entirely possible that Jack could no longer cope with how cruel life had become and wanted to end the suffering by taking his own life. It’s a sad fact that people occasionally take others with them when the balance of their mind is disturbed. Jack loved his surviving daughter. But, if he wanted to die, if he thought he was going to be reunited with his twins, wouldn’t he have taken Alison with him so they could all be together? The fact he abandoned her to an unknown fate in the storm left more questions than answers.
And there are those six sightings of him in the following two months. Have there been more since?
However, Jack could have used the storm as a stage to fake his own death. But why would he want to?
‘Because he couldn’t get over what he’d done,’ I say out loud.
I feel a chill run down my back at that thought. It would have been welcome, given the heatwave, if it hadn’t been such an horrific thought. Jack and Lynne were questioned at length. Difficult questions were asked about them to close friends and family members. The police obviously thought, at least for a while, the parents might have had something to do with the twins’ disappearance.
Had the police investigation turned Jack and Lynne against each other? Many parents split up following the murder of a child. Had Lynne looked at Jack’s relationship with his children and asked the question she hadn’t wanted to know the answer to? Had Jack, racked with guilt, simply walked out into the swollen lake to end it all, or had he given everyone that impression and he was still alive somewhere?
If I’m asking all these questions after only half an hour scrolling through Google hits, surely Alison has been asking them herself for the past thirty years.
I rifle through the sheets I’ve printed off and look for a photograph of Jack Pemberton. He’s leaving a police station, holding the hand of his wife. He looks drawn, shattered, but is he genuine or acting?
‘Are you completely innocent in all this or did you abuse and kill your daughters? And, if you did, did you abuse Alison, too?’ I ask him.
If only he could answer me.
The atmosphere at the breakfast table feels different, heavy, and for once it has nothing to do with my mood. I woke up and, instead of hot, blazing sunshine slicing through the curtains, I saw darkness and gloom. As I pulled them open, I saw clouds for the first time since my arrival. The sky is grey and getting darker all the time. The storm is approaching.
‘Do you think we should close for tonight?’ Philip asks. He’s sitting at the round breakfast table in the family kitchen looking down at his iPad. ‘We’ve had three cancellations already.’
Sally is also studying her tablet. ‘According to the weather, the storm is due to hit early afternoon. I suppose we could put a message on social media, if it gets bad. Besides, surely people will use their common sense.’
That makes me laugh. After more than two decades in the police force, I’ve seen firsthand how little common sense the majority of people out there have.
I turn to look out of the window while nibbling on a piece of granary toast. The lake is still. Despite the heavy clouds, it is difficult to think that in a few hours a wild storm could be raging through the village. I was looking forward to a morning swim. I think I might give it a miss. I never understood wild swimmers before. You never know what’s lurking beneath the waters to get tangled up in, but I’ve been enjoying having this part of the lake all to myself.
‘Are we safe here?’ I ask, turning back to the table. ‘If as much rain falls as forecast, will we flood?’
‘No. The restaurant is raised, so we should be fine unless anything biblical happens. The only thing likely to flood is the cellar, which, I suppose it could be good if some water did get in so then I’d know what needed to be done to make it water-tight before turning it into a wine cellar.’
Carl suddenly lets out a laugh.
‘What’s funny?’ Sally asks.
‘Nothing. I just find it funny how, when I bring my tablet to the table, I get told off, yet it’s perfectly fine for you both to use yours.’
I busy myself with another slice of toast. It would be childish of me to laugh.
