If I want to stick to the roads, I have no choice but to turn around when I reach Aston Rowant and run back the same way. I jog past a row of large, detached properties, set back from the road, Range Rovers or Teslas parked in their long drives, and try to imagine living in one of them. But I quickly give up. I know it’s weird to shun the idea of space, but I’m wary of it. Much better to have my family cramped together, in each other’s pockets, than at a distance with places to hide.
When I get back to the village, my legs are feeling the 10km run, and I’m looking forward to a soak in the bath. The fresh wind has blown away the rain, and the sun is edging its way around the clouds. After Lucy’s caginess last night, Milla’s pale face, and Matt’s distress, a day of sunshine feels like exactly what we need, and I stare upwards, willing it along.
‘Whoa, Rachel!’
I stop, stumble backwards. Charlotte has just stepped out of the bakery, and we almost collided with each other. A sweet smell spills out from the paper bag she’s holding.
‘Gosh, you startled me,’ I respond, drawing my palms into my chest to calm my breathing.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she says, her voice softening now the shock has worn off. ‘I thought about calling, after what happened, but I didn’t want to make a fuss.’
My instant reaction is guilt – for both the real and imagined crimes my family have committed – and I can’t help wondering if Annie has told Charlotte about Milla going missing the night before Amber died. But there’s no accusation in my friend’s face, so I smile my thanks. ‘Not making a fuss is perfect, thank you,’ I say. ‘It was awful, poor girl, but I’m trying to put it behind me.’
‘Of course,’ she says, nodding her understanding. ‘And hopefully the boyfriend being arrested will help with that.’
‘Boyfriend?’ I ask. I saw the item on the local news last night – DI Finnemore standing outside Aylesbury police station and announcing that they’d arrested a 17-year-old male in connection with Amber’s murder. Colleen had suggested he was Amber’s boyfriend, but I wonder how Charlotte knows.
‘Yes, I saw Bill last night. Their family liaison officer told him and Molly that a lad from Towersey had been arrested, and that he was Amber’s boyfriend. Bill had no idea she was even seeing anyone, poor man.’ Emotion catches in her throat.
‘Have you seen much of them?’ I ask. ‘Amber’s foster carers?’
‘A few times. The church community have pulled together to help them. It’s one of the things I like best about it. Molly is out of hospital now and seems fine physically – albeit with a load of new pills to take – but she’s devastated. Keeps blaming herself, like you would, even though of course it’s not her or Bill’s fault. I shouldn’t say it, but it sounds like that girl was trouble. I doubt they’ll foster ever again,’ she adds sadly.
‘What about Jess?’ I ask. ‘I suppose they’re still fostering her?’
‘She wants to leave. Apparently, her social worker tried to persuade her to take a bit more time to figure it all out. But then she started acting up – of course she’d be angry, wouldn’t she – and Bill realised that he and Molly wouldn’t be able to cope. Not after everything that’s happened. So the social worker is trying to sort something out. It might mean a children’s home though; sadly there aren’t a steady stream of foster carers willing to take on a messed-up teenager in Oxfordshire.’
‘Poor kid,’ I mumble. And for all Jess has done to my family, I mean it. Oxfordshire is one of the UK’s most affluent counties, so it shouldn’t be hard to find a spare room in a stable setting, even for someone with as many issues as Jess. But perhaps that’s hypocritical. I mentioned the idea to Matt once, of fostering when both girls had left home. His answer was a flat no – that we do enough for vulnerable children already – and I’ve never felt strongly enough to try and change his mind. ‘Let’s hope she gets a chance to start over,’ I continue.
But Charlotte’s gaze has shifted away from me. ‘That’s him,’ she whispers, hardly moving her lips.
‘That’s who?’ I want to turn in the direction of her stare, but the memory of bumping into Jess at the Co-op is still raw.
‘Bill Wainwright, just coming out of the post office. He looks so sad; I should go and check on him. Come with me?’
‘Well, I should really be getting back …’
‘Please?’ she asks. She shifts along the pavement, and as we haven’t resolved our conversation, I feel compelled to move with her. Bill is walking in our direction too, and I realise I can’t escape this. ‘Hey, Bill, how are you?’ Charlotte asks when we reach him, each word gilded with sympathy.
‘Hello, Charlotte,’ he says, his voice hoarse. ‘Not great.’ He turns to look at me, narrows his eyes. ‘You’re the lady who found our Amber.’
‘I am, yes,’ I mutter. ‘I’m so sorry, such a tragedy,’ I force myself to make eye contact and then wish I hadn’t. Tears are welling up in his, and before I have chance to look away, he’s sobbing, his shoulders spasming.
‘Oh, Bill,’ Charlotte murmurs, putting an arm around him. ‘You poor, poor thing. I can’t imagine what you’re going through at the moment.’
‘It’s awful, Charlotte,’ he splutters. ‘Every minute is like a living hell. You think it can’t get any worse, and then it does. And it’s all my fault.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Charlotte says sternly. ‘You can’t wrap them up in cotton wool, Bill. You thought she went to youth club, then came home, like normal. You could never have known her text wasn’t true.’
‘And what about Jess?’ he throws back at her. I hold my breath.
‘What do you mean?’ Charlotte asks gently.
‘She’s not in a good way,’ he says, his voice cracking. ‘I haven’t let her out of my sight since she came back from that emergency foster carer on Tuesday. But she must have sneaked out in the middle of the night, or maybe first thing this morning, because she wasn’t in her bed when I got up. She’s not answering my calls either. I’ve asked around and no one’s seen her.’ He drops his head so low that his chin is almost touching his chest. ‘I know I need to tell the police, and Colleen, her social worker, that she’s missing. But I’m not sure I can bear it. Not after Amber.’
His face creases again, then disappears into his hands. Charlotte and I exchange horrified glances, but she has no idea what’s fuelling mine. Have I caused this? Has the money we provided given Jess the means to break this man’s heart a second time?
AFTER
Saturday 11th May
Rachel
Milla is sitting at the kitchen table when I get back, eating a Lindt chocolate bunny, leftovers from her Easter stash. I consider pulling her up on her unhealthy breakfast choice, but I just reach for a piece instead, and enjoy a rare moment of pleasure as the milk chocolate disintegrates on my tongue. But its residue reminds me that I’m thirsty after my run, so I pour a large glass of water and gulp half of it down.
‘How are you doing?’ I ask, once my hydration levels have risen.
Milla shrugs but doesn’t look at me. ‘Fine.’
‘No after-effects from last night?’
‘I said I’m fine, Mum,’ she reminds me in a stern voice. She breaks off a rabbit’s ear, angles it to the side of her mouth, and gnaws with her back teeth. When I first woke up, I was determined to ask her what happened last night. Why she’d been crying. Who she needed to hide from among the disused train carriages. Especially after Matt telling me that Jess left via the same route. But my run has changed that, created some distance between last night and today. And now with Jess probably gone from the village too, maybe it’s time to let things lie.
‘Have you seen Dad yet?’ I ask. He’s usually up early, but after his eventful night, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was having a lie-in.
‘He went out.’
My forehead lifts in surprise. ‘For a bike ride?’
