Killing Rachel (5 page)

The phrase
The Notebooks
had become, to Joshua, shorthand for
finding out about their parents
.

The sound of the phone ringing again startled her. It seemed louder this time as if the person ringing was determined to be heard. Rose made little fists with her hands and then stood up and walked stiffly downstairs. She picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. The ringing stopped. The silence was soft and enveloping and she didn’t speak, just listened. Rachel Bliss’s voice was scratchy as if she’d been crying.

‘Rose? Is it you, Rose? Oh, Rose, you have to speak to me. I feel like I’m going mad . . .’

Rose replaced the receiver.

She went upstairs feeling gloomy. She had no idea how she was going to stop this girl from harassing her. No idea at all.

FIVE

On Tuesday morning Rose opened her wardrobe door and looked at her clothes. A line of black trousers, jeans and skirts hung from the rail. Alongside them were white shirts and tops with several sweatshirts, cardigans and jumpers folded below. After she left Mary Linton College she had started to dress in this plain way. She liked the clarity of the monochrome, the sharpness and cleanness of the way they looked together. Anna hated it and tried to persuade her to buy colours. Even Joshua commented on it from time to time but she was adamant. She dressed how she wanted to dress and no one had the right to tell her what she should wear.

Every now and again though she saw something in a shop, a soft pink or turquoise and she felt drawn towards it, imagined wearing it, pictured it against her skin. Once she’d even taken a pink silk blouse as far as the till but had changed her mind and placed it back on the rail and left the shop feeling silly.

Now she fingered the trousers and jeans and wondered what to wear. She pulled out a pair of trousers and a white T-shirt and baggy cardigan. She picked her boots up from the floor and opened her drawer and took out a pair of bright purple socks. These could be worn but not seen.

Maybe one day she would wear colours openly.

Before leaving for college Rose opened the drawer of her desk and took out the unopened letter from Rachel Bliss. The phone calls had unsettled her. It was bad enough hearing messages that had been left but worse to pick up the phone and hear Rachel speaking to her. Not speaking to her,
appealing
to her.

The letter sat in her hand. It would be just like the other two. Rambling words trying to pull her in, to make her care, to get her to do Rachel’s bidding.

She opened it wearily.

Dear Rose,

Things are bad for me, very bad.

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve seen Juliet Baker four times.

I really have.

Rose paused. This was just another of Rachel’s lies. She sighed loudly and carried on reading.

I already told you that she’s been on my mind a lot lately. Anyhow, it was late at night and I was looking out of my room towards the lake, staring into the dark and suddenly she was there under the trees, just beyond the car park. I was so shocked. Her face seemed to shine in the dark. She was standing there. I kept my eyes on her, afraid to look away, and she was still, like a statue. Her face was white against her hair, like there was no blood in her at all. She seemed to stare me out and in the end I had to look away and when I turned back she was gone.

It scared the life out of me. I couldn’t sleep.

Then yesterday I was in the quad trying to read a book and I looked up at my room window. Juliet was there. Her face was there staring down at me. She was at my window, Rose! She was in my room. I was hysterical. I ran up there. I just charged through everyone else and ran like mad. When I got there the door was shut. I opened it and the room was empty.

So now you will think I’ve gone mad.

You see why I need your help.

Please contact me, Rose.

Rachel

Rose lowered the paper, her face crinkled.
Juliet Baker
. How on earth could Rachel have seen her? Juliet Baker was dead. She’d been dead long before Rose ever set eyes on Rachel Bliss. What was Rachel saying?

That she had seen a ghost?

Ridiculous.

Rose pulled her laptop out of her bag and opened it, logging on quickly. She went on Google and put in the words
Juliet Baker Mary Linton College
. After a few seconds a number of entries came up. She clicked on the
North Norfolk Gazette
.

Day Boarder Commits Suicide

A day boarder at a private girls’ boarding school was found dead by her brother yesterday. The girl, Juliet Baker, fifteen, had attended the school since she was eleven. The girl’s father, Philip Baker, was a gardener at the school until recently. The headmistress, Mrs Harriet Abbott, said that the staff and students were dreadfully upset and that this was a tragedy for the school and the family.

The girl’s body was found in the garage of her parents’ home.

Her parents and brother are being comforted by relatives.

Rose looked at the small photograph at the corner of the page. It showed a smiling schoolgirl. She had pale skin and black hair which hung to her shoulders. She had a fringe which threw a shadow over her eyes. Her teeth looked very white.

Rose never knew this girl. Juliet Baker had been in Brontë House and although she must have seen her around she couldn’t have been in any of her classes. She knew about her, of course. When the suicide happened the whole school had crumpled. There were pictures of her everywhere. Her pale face and dark hair gave her a look of melancholy, as if somehow she knew she was going to die young. Every time Rose walked round a corner she seemed to see the girl’s face staring at her. The death disturbed everyone. The teachers went around dabbing their eyes, their faces red, their voices scratchy. Many of the students went into hysterics and although Rose felt sad for what had happened she had no connection with this girl and had just kept herself to herself while the melee continued.

Eventually things got back to normal.

Then, a while later, Rachel Bliss moved out of Brontë House and joined Eliot House, and Rose and she became friends. She’d known that Rachel had been one of Juliet Baker’s friends; they’d talked about her. It was a tragic story and hearing about it had given Rose the confidence to tell Rachel about her own past. Rachel had sat impassively while Rose had explained to her about her mother and Brendan’s disappearance. At first she had been full of sympathy but then Rose had found her researching it on the internet, fascinated by any details she’d found. She remembered Rachel calling her into her room, her eyes glittering with excitement, to show her various newspaper reports on her laptop; Senior Police Officers Disappear; Cold Case Police Officers Vanish; Mystery of Absent Police Pair; No Clue to Police Pair’s Disappearance. Rose had been astonished. It was the first time she had seen these old newspaper articles. She hadn’t even known, at the time, that the press were reporting it. She and Joshua had lived with foster parents for the first couple of weeks after their parents’ disappearance and then she had gone to her grandmother’s. She’d been twelve years old, aching with loss, no interest in television or newspapers. Seeing it there, years later, she’d been amazed and appalled to see her mother’s name,
Inspector Katherine Smith
, in print. Then, after looking at new stuff day after day with Rachel, she’d felt herself overwhelmed by the information.

‘I don’t want to look at any more of this,’ she said to Rachel one day. ‘It’s too upsetting.’

‘Sure,’ Rachel had said, looking concerned. ‘I won’t find anything else. I didn’t know it would upset you. I’ll just leave it.’

‘Thanks. It’s in the past. I don’t want to keep thinking about it.’

‘I know. It was insensitive of me.’

‘Hey, I know you were doing it for the right reason. I know that. But just no more, OK?’

‘No problem.’

But Rachel did keep looking. Weeks later Rose went into her room when she wasn’t there and saw her laptop up and a Google search for
Katherine Smith
and
Brendan Johnson
.

‘Why are you still researching this?’ she demanded when Rachel came back into the room.

Rachel stiffened, glancing at the screen and then back to Rose. She took a scrunchie from her pocket and pulled her hair back off her face. She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, as if it was inconsequential.

‘This is
my
family . . .’

‘Yeah, sure. I won’t look any more,’ Rachel said, snapping shut the lid of the laptop.

‘You do understand, don’t you?’ Rose said.

‘Whatever,’ Rachel said, walking out of the room.

Then Rachel had found other dramas to talk about so she left Rose’s past alone.

Rose picked up the letter again.

Now Rachel had a new drama. She was being haunted by the ghost of her dead friend.

Later, at college, Rose made an uncomfortable phone call to her grandmother.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Anna . . .’

‘Rose? Is there anything wrong?’

‘No, no, I was just calling because I wondered if you would do something for me?’

The words did not come out easily. Rose was not accustomed to asking Anna for a favour.

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve got a problem.’

‘A problem?’

‘This girl I used to be friends with at Mary Linton? Her name was Rachel Bliss?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Well, she’s been writing to me and ringing me. She sounds upset. She keeps asking for my help and . . .’

‘She sent you the letters?’

‘Yes. Thing is I’m a bit worried about her. I feel like she might be having some kind of breakdown. I don’t feel that I can actually help her from here.’

‘You’d like
me
to speak to her?’

‘No, no. I wondered if you would ring the school and speak to the housemistress, Martha Harewood? You could just say that I was worried that something was up with her and ask her if she’d speak to her. I don’t want to do it myself . . .’

‘I understand perfectly. I’ll do it now.’

‘Thank you.’

Rose ended the call. Her grandmother was going to sort it out. She could imagine her making the call.
Put me through to housemistress Martha Harewood. Ah, Miss Harewood, I’m ringing on behalf of my granddaughter Rose Smith
. . . She should have felt relieved but instead felt a little ashamed. She’d shoved her problem on to someone else. What else could she do, though? She did not want to get involved with Rachel Bliss again.

SIX

Rose went straight to Joshua’s flat after college. She’d received a text from him earlier in the afternoon.
Dad’s stuff has arrived from the solicitors! Come ASAP.

Joshua opened the door.

‘Come on,’ he said, sounding impatient.

She followed him up the stairs, taking off her coat as she went.

It was on the kitchen table. It was a buff-coloured foolscap file. It looked old, its corners battered. A label had been stuck to the front flap but had been torn off, leaving scraps of white. On one corner was handwriting –
B. Johnson. Cold Case Ops North London
.

‘I already unpacked it but I wanted you to do it as well. To get a big surprise.’

She looked a little sceptical.

‘Go on, look at it!’

She put her bag on one of the chairs and picked up the file. It was heavy. She lifted the flap and she could see the edges of a hardback book. When she pulled it out she saw exactly why Joshua had been so excited. It was
The Butterfly Project
.

‘Oh, wow!’ she said, taken aback.

It was the same edition as they had seen in Frank Richards’ flat. It was old, its pages thumbed, some turned over.

‘And there’s other stuff, look,’ Joshua said, taking the file from her and unpacking it on to the table.

There were six things. The first, the book, sat at the far end. The others were lined up and Rose’s eyes rested on each of them. There was a large photograph of Joshua and his dad, the type that might once have been in a frame. Joshua was very young, five or six, and he was sitting on Brendan’s knee. It was a Christmas picture because there was a tree at the side and Brendan had a paper hat on. There was a leather key ring with a ‘B’ on it and a Chubb key attached. A notebook was the next thing. It was quite different to the other notebooks they had. It was half the size and had Brendan’s writing in it, no code. Written in it were place names in North Norfolk. Some of them were familiar to Rose. There was a CD of Bruce Springsteen. The last thing was an Ordnance Survey map of the North Norfolk coast.