In Bitter Chill (26 page)

Rachel heard on the radio that they were digging in Truscott Woods and, for a while, time stood still. She switched off the radio and, in silence, continued to work on the family tree of Cathy Franklin. The silence in the house wasn’t oppressive but it was all encompassing.

She’d managed to find evidence of Cathy’s great-grandmother’s stay at Needham Hall and details of her marriage to one of the grooms, three months before the birth of her first child. Did Cathy have aristocratic connections? Rachel thought it likely, but it would be impossible to prove except by DNA sampling. And Rachel doubted that Charles Needham would be willing to undergo that. Why had he been so angry when she had asked him where he was born? A family secret she was unlikely to get to the bottom of. And now she had come to accept that some things would remain that way. And perhaps Cathy Franklin would have to accept secrets as well, with her complicated family tree that was nowhere near as catastrophic as Rachel’s ancestry had turned out to be, but complex enough to demand Rachel’s attention while the radio sat reproachfully silent in the kitchen.

There was a knock on the door and Rachel jumped up from the table, ready to do battle with one of the posse of journalists once again encamped outside her house. She flung open the door and came face-to-face with a tall woman, clutching her handbag across her chest.

‘You probably don’t want to see me.’

This wasn’t the usual approach of journalists and Rachel, with a lurch in her chest, realised who the figure was. ‘You’re . . .’

‘Justine. I know you won’t want to see me, but I wanted to say I’m sorry about everything.’

‘I’m not sure that you’ve got anything to be sorry for.’ Rachel stepped back and let Justine into the room. A flash from a camera outside caused white orbs to float around her vision. Her half-sister walked into the room and stared around in frank curiosity, her eyes briefly resting on an old photograph of Rachel’s mother.

Justine dropped her bag to the floor as if the weight of it were sapping her strength. ‘I still can’t believe it about Auntie Bridget. She was always so kind to me when I was little. She was always marvelling how like Dad I was. I never thought she could do something like that.’

Rachel sat down on the sofa, a different type of nausea now assailing her, from the baby growing within. ‘Nothing was ever hinted at within your family?’

She saw Justine hesitate. ‘I have these half-memories that keep rising to the surface. Do you know what I mean?’ She looked to Rachel for reassurance and seemed happy with what she saw in her face.

‘I know Dad and Aunt Bridget were close, but I
think
I remember Mum once saying that she was scared of Auntie. It was years ago, though, when I was an adult. Dad was sick with the flu and Auntie Bridget wouldn’t stay away. There was something almost fevered in the way she fussed around Dad. And I think Mum said that it wasn’t natural.’

‘Not natural?’

‘I just remember this throwaway comment, but it’s coming back to haunt me. You can understand that, can’t you?’

The past haunting the present. Well, yes, she did know about that. But she was also learning that some things were also just too difficult to solve. And there could be too much reality to face. Justine would need to come to the same conclusion in her own time.

Justine looked out of the window. ‘Do you know they’re searching Truscott Woods?’

‘I’d heard on the radio.’ Rachel felt a deep weariness come over her.

‘There’s a police car just drawn up.’

Rachel joined Justine at the window. Together they watched as Llewellyn climbed out of the car.

‘It’s unlocked,’ Rachel shouted as he reached the front door and together they watched him enter the room, his tall frame filling the space.

‘You’ve found her?’ Rachel knew the answer before he could reply. Why else would he be here?

He nodded at them both and didn’t comment on Justine’s presence. ‘We’ve found bones. The size is about right for Sophie but we’re waiting for the post-mortem to see if the dental records match.’

Rachel looked at him. ‘But you think it’s her.’

‘I’m almost sure of it. We just need official confirmation.’

‘And what now?’

‘In terms of the kidnapping? Well, James Lander is dead. Your father.’ He included them both in the look. ‘But we’ll be pushing for kidnapping and possibly manslaughter charges against Bridget Lander to be brought in relation to your case.’

‘But she killed Mrs Lander too, I mean Penny. I mean your mum.’ Rachel looked at her half-sister.

Llewellyn was rubbing his face. ‘The CPS will almost certainly try that as a separate case. There’s more chance of a conviction given forensic and other evidence. She’ll face a murder charge.’

‘But my, I mean our case – mine and Sophie’s – will be heard? Will it come to trial?’

Llewellyn looked grim. ‘It will if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

His eyes fell to the stack of papers that she’d been working on. ‘She’s your aunt, Rachel; don’t underestimate the power of family ties, even non-blood ones. Don’t be surprised if you start to feel mixed emotions during any future trial. I’ve seen it happen before.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I feel nothing. When I look at my matrilineal line I do feel something. I always have done. It’s sustained me over the years and it continues to do so now. There’s a resonance that slowly takes shape down the ages.’

Llewellyn’s eyes were on her.

‘With my father’s side, or rather the father that I thought I had, I never felt anything. I thought it was due to the fact I’d never known him. Then when things became clearer, I expected to feel something. About James Lander. After all, he is part of my maternal line too.’

‘But you feel nothing.’

Rachel swept her hand over her stomach. Not flat, it never was. But the curve already felt different.

‘There are some things that are impossible to articulate. I think of my natural father and I feel nothing. Mair was dead right. You take what life throws at you and you carry on the best you can. She was right to do what she did. And so was my mother. They did what they thought was for the best. And I would have done the same.’ She was out of breath.

‘Have you thought about your heritage though, Rachel? You are the child of incest, even if it was unwitting.’

Rachel grimaced. ‘I’ve come across it a few times in my research. Another secret that never fails to shock my clients when I tell them. I never thought it would be my lot too. But I remember what one woman said to me when I told her that her great-grandmother had, almost certainly, been the result of a father–daughter union.’

‘What did she say?’ Justine moved forward, towards her.

‘She said that it was women’s lot in life to get on with it and make the best of things. And I think that could apply to my mother, Nancy and Mair too.’

Llewellyn smiled. ‘I always admired your mother. If it’s any consolation, you remind me of her. I’ve also known Daniel Weiss and his son Richard for years. Your baby has some fine genes.’   

The pale watery sun attempted to sneak through the branches and infiltrate the gloom of the cold wood. The nocturnal inhabitants stirred as the chill seeped into their pelts and disturbed their dreams. It would be hours before they awoke in the familiar environment that allowed them to forage in peace every evening.

A lonely badger stirred early, his dreams punctured by an unfamiliar sound that permeated his sleep. Now wide awake, he sensed that something had changed around him, a foreign scent betraying the shift that had fractured his familiar world. In the distance he could hear noise. Too far away to cause alarm but an unwelcome trespass onto his territory. Human voices briefly came towards him. Perhaps he needed to flee deeper into the wood. But suddenly they changed direction and once more the landscape was engulfed in silence.

The new inhabitant of the wood lay at peace in her unfamiliar bed.

Thanks to my agent, Kirsty McLachlan, who loved
In Bitter Chill
at first sight and helped tease out its title.

To my editors Katherine Armstrong at Faber & Faber in the UK and Anne Brewer at Thomas Dunne Books in the US. The novel is better for your comments.

To early readers of the book: Tana, Alison, Sylvia, Clare, Ed. And Eve Seymour.

To the Petrona Award judges: Karen Meek, Kat Hall and Barry Forshaw for their continued encouragement.

To the Iceland Noir gang, especially Quentin Bates. Great curries beckon in the future, I’m sure.

To Chris, Jill, Carol and Socrates for the long-distance cheering from Greece.

To Brian for advice about policing and Edith for insights into buried memories.

To my family – Dad, Adrian, Ed and Katie – for the support. Especially during 2013.

Finally, love and thanks to the crime fiction community. Bloggers, reviewers, writers and readers – you really are the friendliest and most supportive bunch of people.