Forget Me Not

Chapter Eleven

Rachel

There was a moment when I woke up the following morning when everything was as it should be. Nothing had changed. I lay in the early morning sunlight and listened to the gentle snore of the man I’d married beside me. Passing thoughts of the summer holidays went through my head. Having two children so far apart in age had made it hard to find a holiday that would suit them both. We’d opted for a villa with a pool and allowed Beth to ask a friend along.

I smiled, thinking of Molly – who’d already thrown a couple of dolls and a swimming suit into her Trunki suitcase. Yes, she’d been a bit of a surprise when she’d arrived. The result of too much wine, a missed pill and caution being thrown to the wind. But she was so precious to me. And to her daddy, too. I’d give him that much. He was a doting father. It was almost as if he’d taken all the love and attention he used to give me and simply transferred it to his beautiful baby girl. I supposed she was easier to love than I was.

I yawned, glancing at the alarm clock. It would go off soon. The day would begin. And that’s when it swooped in again. The reality of what was happening. I’d have to go back to work. They’d only be understanding to a point – and I couldn’t let my pupils down – but the very thought of it intimidated me. My head was too full of the horror of what was happening in my life to stand in front of a classroom and pretend to be normal. This wasn’t normal.

I sat up, turned off the alarm clock before it beeped and made my way downstairs to make a coffee. I’d take this time to myself to gather my thoughts before the rest of the household woke.

Sitting at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand, I scrolled through my phone. It was filled with messages about Clare, questions – people I’d barely spoken to in years wanting all the juicy gossip. Facebook wasn’t much better. A grief fest. Everyone who’d ever seen Clare before making a claim on her and how much they’d miss her.

There were no new leads from the police. There’d be a press conference in the afternoon. I wondered if Ronan and his parents were preparing to make a statement, after all. Would they be like those poor families you saw on TV, blinking and crying in front of all the flashing lights and cameras. Stunned by their grief and this horrendous way of getting fifteen minutes of fame.

Michael hadn’t replied to my message. The one where I’d thanked him for the flowers but urged discretion. I didn’t like that. It made me nervous. I chewed on my thumbnail as I contemplated calling him to make sure everything was okay. But it was barely gone seven in the morning and it would be risky to have a phone conversation in the house at this time. What if the girls woke? Or Paul?

I thought of Michael’s words to me just after we’d slept together. How he’d asked me whether I thought I deserved to be happy. Had what happened with Clare not shown me how life was short and I should grab at happiness?

It wasn’t as simple as that though, was it? I had daughters. A house. A job. A reputation. A mortgage, for goodness’ sake. I deleted my messages to ‘Michelle’ – I’d been selfish for wanting him … for needing him. Other people relied on me to be there for them. To be strong and stable. Even when things weren’t always going well.

For better and for worse, that was how it went, wasn’t it? Had I been looking for an easy escape from the harder times – fooling myself with romantic notions for a man who hadn’t even messaged me back?

I slipped my phone into my bag, finished my coffee and wondered quite what the hell I was doing with my life. Wondered if I was just a stupid woman enduring a midlife crisis and justifying my selfish actions to myself in whatever way I could. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be. After so many years of marriage. So many years of raising children and being sensible. Maybe I was stupid to expect anything more than simply working together like a team, managing the house and the family we’d created together. Stupid and vain and desperate for male attention. Why couldn’t I just be content with what I had?

Chapter Twelve

Elizabeth

I’d had that nightmare again. The one where I was with Laura but not with her. I’m watching her go through the last hours and minutes of her life and it’s as if I’m watching from behind a screen. I keep trying to reach out to her, but my hand only ever gets close. I never make contact. I can only ever reach out with my bad arm – the one that doesn’t work properly. No matter how much I try to use my other arm, it won’t move.

I call to her to wait for me, but she disappears, or the scene changes, or it gets too dark. I’m watching her as she tries to phone me, reaches my voicemail but doesn’t leave a message. I’m shouting at her to speak. ‘Leave a message, Laura! Let me hear your voice one more time!’

Maybe if I’d got a message, things would have been different. I wouldn’t have ignored a message the same way I’d ignored a missed call. I’d promised myself I’d call her back later, but I never got the chance. In the dream, she doesn’t hear me shouting. I’m stomping my feet, and banging cupboard doors and shouting until my throat hurts and my stomach constricts with the effort of it. I’m throwing things – hoping if I don’t reach her, don’t touch her, they will. They’ll distract her. They’ll get through to her.

I’m begging and pleading and shouting as I watch her walk out of her house, away from her husband, away from her children, away from me. I’m praying to Paddy, imploring him in his heavenly seat to get through to her. Pleading with a dead man, as if that would ever work. ‘Please, Paddy. Stop her. Stop our girl. Let her know she can’t leave me. It’s bad enough you’re not here.’

I run to the door to follow her, but I can’t open it. It won’t open. The locks keep disappearing and changing and locking again, and all the time I’m screaming at her not to go.

That was how it usually went. It had been different this time, though. I’d crumpled to the floor, shouting and crying, and turned to see Clare Taylor sitting at the bottom of the stairs shaking her head. She was smiling – a weird, twisted kind of smile. It unnerved me. Her hand reached out to mine, just as I’d tried to reach out to Laura. I expected not to quite get close enough. I expected us just to miss each other, just as I always missed Laura’s hand. But I felt Clare’s hand, in my dream. It was holding mine, squeezing it. I looked in her eyes and she told me again to ‘Warn them’ – I just didn’t know who ‘they’ were.

I woke with a start, a cold sweat drenching me despite the heat. My breathing was laboured. I didn’t want Clare in my dreams. I wanted Laura. I wanted to hold her hand and feel her hand. Not this woman I didn’t know. I didn’t want the trauma of what I’d shared with her to take my daughter from my dreams – no matter how harrowing those dreams had been. At least it had been Laura in them. At least she’d been alive in my imagination.

I sat up, aware of the first signs of light in the sky outside. I hugged my knees to me, looked to the empty side of the bed. I’d never get used to it. Paddy being gone. It had been seven years and still I never allowed so much as my foot to slip over to the space where he once lay. This house had known too much loss and too much pain. I sat and rocked myself until my heartbeat settled.

I’d call that DI Bradley as soon as was appropriate and I’d ask him more questions. Ask him if he was warning anyone. Surely I had a right to know that? I shouldn’t have to carry that burden on my shoulders alone.

‘The investigation is at a very sensitive stage,’ Patricia had told me after I’d sat drinking tea with the Taylors – both of them too numb with shock to talk to me. ‘I know that our methods might seem a little strange, but please bear with us,’ she told me.

I’d nodded. Agreed. Because that was what I did. I nodded and agreed with people – did what I was told. Meanwhile, I was being haunted in my dreams by that poor woman and I’d never forgive myself – ever – if anyone else got hurt.

DI Bradley led me through a series of dull and uninspiring corridors until we reached a small and equally uninspiring office. It was tired-looking; dank and depressing. I saw he was tired, too. In fact, he looked exhausted – his shirt wrinkled. His face unshaven. The room had a musty smell to it – as if someone had slept there, grabbed a few hours when they could.

‘You look done in,’ I said as I sat down.

‘It’s been a busy forty-eight hours, Mrs O’Loughlin. Busy and frustrating.’

‘You’ll have to be careful not to burn yourself out,’ I said.

I’d seen it before, police officers chasing a case until they had nothing left to give.

‘I’ll be going home in a bit,’ he said. ‘Grab a couple of hours’ kip, get a shower. Be back here for the press conference. Now, what can I help you with? Have you remembered anything else?’

I shook my head. ‘No, it’s not that. I’m very grateful you’ve taken the time to see me. I just feel uneasy about it all. I know maybe I’ve no right to keep asking what’s happening, but that poor girl told me to warn people and I’ve made myself sick with worry that I’ve not been able to warn anyone. Patricia – Constable Hopkins – asked me not to say anything to the family.’

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sat back in his chair. ‘I know this must be very difficult for you. We’re asking you to stick with us. Just as it’s important that information gets out there, it’s important that some information is held back – for the sake of the investigation. I’m not at liberty to go into it all, but we have good operational reasons.’

Frustration niggled at me. ‘But what if someone else gets hurt? Won’t it be my fault then? I mean, it’s bad enough now, knowing I couldn’t help her. I don’t want to feel worse if something happens to someone else. And I felt awful lying to her family yesterday – telling them she hadn’t said anything. I mean, they’ll find out eventually, won’t they? They’ll think me a liar. I don’t understand why they haven’t been told.’

‘This is a complex investigation,’ DI Bradley said. ‘We have to play our cards close to our chest at the moment until we’re able to identify a clear suspect. We have concerns that revealing her last words could, in fact, place you in a position of some jeopardy.’

My heart thudded. ‘Me? Why?’

‘Because if there are more people out there who this killer might target, you warning them might make him, or her, unhappy.’

I felt sick. Why had no one mentioned to me before that I could possibly be in danger? Didn’t I have a right to know?

‘We’re doing our best to protect your identity. We’ve not released any of your details to the press; nor have they been discussed outside the confines of the incident room.’

He must have noticed the colour draining from me. The police may have kept it under wraps, but I’d been to see the Taylors. Had they been warned to say nothing about my identity? And those two women who’d been drinking tea with Ronan in the kitchen. Who were they?

‘Mrs O’Loughlin, at the moment we have no reason to believe at all that you’re in any danger,’ DI Bradley said, cutting through my thoughts. ‘We intend on it staying that way, but we’re reviewing the situation as often as the need arises.’

I nodded, but I couldn’t push down the nausea increasing in my stomach, nor stop the thudding of my heart. I’d have to check all the locks in the house. Get that security light in the yard fixed. It had broken at least six months ago and I’d kept meaning to get it looked at.

‘The investigation’s proving more complex than we thought,’ he said. ‘We hope the press conference later will jog some memories or bring some more information to light. We just ask that in the meantime you trust us and trust what we’re doing.’

I was hardly in a position to say no.

As I left the police station and walked out into the hot morning air, the brightness of the sun in my eyes, I felt a growing sense of unease wash over me. I cursed myself for going for my walk on Wednesday morning. I should have stayed inside. Things would have been easier if I’d just stayed inside.

My body tensed, my muscles aching. Stress, they say, makes every ache and pain flare up. Fibromyalgia, the doctor told me. On top of the nerve damage from my fall. Physical pain to match the mental anguish I lived with every day.

As I walked my ageing, aching body back to my car, part of me hoped that whoever it was that had brought this horrific end to Clare Taylor would come back and end my life, too.

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