Page 59 of Worse Than Murder
‘What do you mean?’
‘Three hours the underwater team searched in the area you said you saw the car. Back and forth they went. They even went out further just in case you were mistaken about the location.’
‘And?’
‘No car.’
‘What?’
‘No fucking car, Matilda.’
Idecide to go for a walk. I knew I shouldn’t have got involved in the investigation into the missing Pemberton twins. I knew their story would set up home in my already full mind and take root. Ever since I googled them and saw their innocent smiling faces looking out at me from the screen, I can’t stop seeing them. Even though they were twins, they reminded me of me and Harriet when we were young girls, and those school photos we had where our mother had dressed us in near identical outfits because she thought we would look cute. The memory brings a lump to my throat. My sister is gone. She wants nothing more to do with me. I can understand why. My actions have led to the murder of her sons.
Ifuckinghate you.
‘I fucking hate me, too,’ I say under my breath.
And now, it seems, I’m bloody seeing things. There is no car at the bottom of the lake. But there is. I’m so sure I saw a car. Had I imagined it? Has finding a registration plate put pieces of a jigsaw together that don’t belong together to reveal a picture that makes no sense? Am I losing my mind due to the heavy grief I’m suffering? If so, what next? Where do I go from here? Is there a chance of recovery?
‘Matilda?’
I jump at the sound of my name and literally scream out loud.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
I turn and see Alison Pemberton standing in the doorway of a picture-postcard cottage.
‘No. That’s fine. I was… I was miles away.’
‘What are you doing round here?’
I look around me. I have no idea where I am. I’m walking in the middle of an unmarked road, flanked either side by mismatched stone-built cottages.
‘I just thought I’d take a walk, discover more of the village,’ I lie, unconvincingly. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes. This is home. I was actually born in the back bedroom. Never lived anywhere else,’ she says with a smile. ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘Sure.’
I walk towards the house and up the small pathway. As I step closer to the cottage, I see it’s not picture-perfect at all. The door surround is crumbling, the garden needs weeding, the windows need replacing and the chimney stack looks precarious. This house may hold memories for Alison, but they are all sad and dark and have leached into the building. When I step inside, I can feel the intensity of the emotion shroud me. I wonder if my own home back in Sheffield feels like this.
Alison closes the door and shows me into the living room off the small hallway. The ceilings are low, the walls painted dark, giving the room a cosy, yet claustrophobic feel. The furniture is clearly too big for the room. With no windows open and no air coming through, it’s oppressive.
I sit down. ‘You all lived here then? Two parents and three children?’
‘Yes. A tight squeeze,’ Alison says, sitting on the opposing armchair.
‘It must be full of memories for you.’
‘Not really,’ she says, looking around her. ‘I can’t remember much. I was only five when my sisters were taken. I’ve got photographs but they’re just pictures, aren’t they? Sometimes it’s like I’m looking at strangers.’
‘Do you remember your dad much?’ I ask, looking at the framed photo on the mantle.
‘Bits,’ she eventually says. ‘I’m not sure what are real memories and what I’ve invented. He’s my dad, I want to remember him as being a happy, loving man, but I know he was depressed. I know he had dark days. I sometimes picture him in this room smiling and laughing, but I don’t think it’s real. I think it’s something I’m trying to convince myself of.’
‘The sightings of your dad?—’
‘I’ve kept a record,’ Alison interrupts. She jumps up and goes to an antique desk in the corner of the room. From the top drawer, she brings out a box file. ‘I’ve kept all the newspaper clippings, and I’ve printed things I’ve found online about the investigation and missing people. Carl Meagan was missing for four years. He was found by a fluke, wasn’t he? My mum keeps telling me I should forget about it, but it’s not totally impossible that my dad is still out there, is it?’
