Helen Callaghan - Dear Amy

And it came to him, whole and of a piece. The Grove, the girl, and what he would tell her. As he played it in his mind, he could feel himself believing it.

He was a rich man, a powerful man, and he was in a club that exchanged young girls amongst themselves. He had kidnapped her and was supposed to pass her on, but he had fallen in love with her, and he was going to keep her.

But these others, oh, they were rich and powerful too. If one let the side down, they would all be in trouble, so they would do all they could to punish both her and him if they caught them. So she would not be able to leave him, he would tell her, because they would kill her loved ones – her granny, and that friend of hers, The Gnat.

They had done the same to Melissa, after all.

That was it. He would tell her that they had killed Melissa – beautiful Melissa, who had run off to London to be a model, then given birth to her and vanished, never to be seen again. After all, neither Bethan nor Peggy had any real idea of what had become of Melissa – only suspicions.

And this shadowy cabal; they’d ordered him – well, not ordered him, because he was rich and powerful, nobody ordered him around – but strongly suggested that they pick up her daughter too. And he couldn’t say no, because they would ruin him, but now here she was and unless she helped him conceal her then…

His shame at his reception was going out, like a fast tide. That was it. That was the answer. And perhaps he would tell her the truth eventually, one day, when they were both far away and he was sure she knew who really held the whip hand over her.

When the car started, he felt much, much better. He was already glad – so very glad – that he had come. Everything was falling into place.

He didn’t get Bethan for Christmas, or see in the New Year with her. He arrived at the Grove the next Friday afternoon, 19 December, and with a sinking heart recognized the glossy 4x4 in the drive, its front tyres crushing the lawn, and the cheerful bellow of Young Mr Broeder. Phase Two, it seemed, would have to wait.

Young Mr Broeder (or Caspar, as he insisted upon being called) would be staying for a long weekend, with two Hooray Henrys he rowed with and an icy posh self-assured blonde called Julietta who Chris detested on sight. He threw out their champagne and Cognac bottles and their empty trays of takeaway, listened to them yowl and chatter to one another in the house while he busied himself in the grounds, their ghetto blaster filling the cold winter air with meaningless pounding noise that they never seemed to tire of. Dubstep, they called it. Apparently Young Mr Broeder had composed it, out of a selection of dustbin lids banging together from the sounds of things. What the fuck did they teach them at university, anyway?

When Christmas Eve rolled around and they finally buggered off, it was too late to move to Phase Two. Christmas came and went, and then New Year, and he sulked at the inherent unfairness of his life. He knew social workers had this time off, so despite endless and furious thinking, he could come up with no reason to contact the Averys, and stalking Bethan was too dangerous.

It had been the longest he had gone without seeing her since that day he had first laid eyes on her, and the absence was killing him. First thing Monday morning, he was calling that number of Peggy’s.

He had, when he started, no clear idea of what he intended, other than to get close to her and wait for an opportunity to suggest itself. He had half-formed the conviction that she should go willingly with him – which was not to say, fully informed, that would be a little too ambitious – but there could be no question of trying to force her into the car or using violence against her, at least anywhere where he might be seen. Some ruse would have to be devised.

But the cold lonely Christmas had hardened his dreams into plans, and the closer he came to realizing them, the more he had to bleakly consider the danger they put himself and Bethan in. Especially him. Unfair as it was, they wouldn’t be sending her to prison.

On the other hand, nobody but Old Mr Broeder knew about the hidden cellar, and good luck if they wanted to get any sense out of him. When the hue and cry went out, as it almost certainly would, the police had to be in a position to search the house and find nothing.

If they even got this far. He had a plan for that too, now he thought about it.

He used up the soundproofing material he’d purchased, and bought more just in case, driving for miles so as not to arouse suspicion, being constantly jostled by a post-holiday crowd of shoppers. He queued patiently in Marks & Spencer in St Albans with his lacy bras and panties, his cotton nightdresses in the basket. He surveyed the other women in the queue around him – not one of them was a patch on his girl, he thought with quiet satisfaction. His glee seemed to fill him up, threaten to spill over. His girl.

He bought ready meals and cans of soup and individual pots of yogurts. He pondered whether to buy games, or books, or chocolates, before deciding that he would let her earn them first. The thought made him smile.

In the final load of soundproofing and rope he purchased from the building supplies store in Stevenage, he also threw a ball-peen hammer into the cart.

In the car, in the here and now, Chris tried to ease out his tensed, cramped shoulders, rolling them in their sockets, feeling his wiry muscles sing and stretch.

Nothing from the police station still.

All right. Ten more minutes.

If nothing happened and she didn’t come out, he was heading back to the Grove.

To Katie.

I rested my weary chin on my hand.

Through the high barred windows the snow was falling, the first snow of winter, whirling past and down in huge, diaphanous pieces. It had been snowing for a while, doubtless the ground outside was now soft and white. I wouldn’t have known, I’d been sat in a cheap plastic chair for the last two hours, being mercilessly grilled like some kind of criminal.

I suppose, technically, I was some kind of criminal.

Martin stood up and offered to get me a coffee, and I nodded assent. The policeman sat opposite us leered unpleasantly.

Also with us, finally, was the legendary Detective Superintendent O’Neill, who was running the investigation, though at the moment he was largely (very large – he must be at least 6 foot 5) silent, leaning against the desk, regarding me with a curiosity that was not quite hostile, not yet, but was far from friendly, the vast surface of his forehead wrinkling at me. The reflection of myself I saw in him merited no better response. What kind of selfish nutcase, who could be able to finger a rapist and murderer of young girls, uses pitiful ruses like letters and fugue states to call attention to herself first?

I shifted uncomfortably. I had no answer for this. I had no answers at all, until somebody finally hit on the right question.

I had been astonished by the amount of personnel involved. Various people, most of whom were police officers, had come in at junctures throughout the day, wanting to speak to O’Neill about some aspect of the case, and drawing him outside the room for circumspect conversations. At one point the woman detective who had come to my house appeared. I had smiled at her. She did not smile back.

Greta was the one standing next to O’Neill now.

And as for Greta… well, the less said the better.

‘I am astonished at you, Martin. Abusing a vulnerable woman like this!’

Her complexion was marbled with red and white. She was really very, very angry.