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They spent the next hour together. Kim got a Feast, but Bec and Josie went for crushed ice drinks – blue ones, that made their tongues change colour. They tried out the swingboat, throwing their arms in the air as the wind blasted through their hair. Then they went on a bouncy castle, until some bigger boys started being too rough. After a go on the dodgems, and some strawberry sherbets, Josie was down to her last 5p, and there was still an hour before she had to meet her brother again. She wondered if he might give her some more money – even 10p. Paul had a Saturday job helping at a barbers in town and that got him three quid a time. Their parents thought he was saving, but most of it went on cigs. First, though, she needed a wee.
Kim pointed her past the big top, towards a set of cubicles standing in a row. With all the crowds, the quickest way was through a load of caravans parked up behind the tent. She guessed it was where all the workers stayed, and the people who set up the shows.
‘Meet you by the haunted house,’ she said, and headed off.
Beyond the main circus tent, the ground was boggy, but here and there panels of rubber matting had been laid across patches of mud. Cables snaked between the caravans, and with bin bags and buckets strewn about it wasn’t very nice at all. The caravans themselves looked deserted, their curtains drawn. Josie quickened her step, suddenly thinking she probably wasn’t supposed to be in this area at all.
As she rounded a wheelbarrow filled with sandbags, a movement to her left made her heart jolt. A huge black and brown dog leapt right at her, only to be snatched back on a chain around its neck. It barked and strained, drool flying from its mouth. Josie normally liked dogs, but she could tell this one wanted to bite her. The caravan door opened, and a young woman in a blue satin dressing gown appeared at the top of some steps.
‘Shut it, Tyson!’ she said.
The dog immediately relaxed, sitting back and licking its lips.
‘Sorry,’ said Josie.
The woman stared hard at her – almost through her, Josie thought.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said. Then she went back inside and closed the door.
Josie’s heart was still racing as she hurried on to the portable toilets. She didn’t want to take her teddy inside, so left it on the grass, hoping no one would take it. The loos weren’t as bad as she expected, but she made sure she washed her hands twice anyway.
When she came out, there was a small queue forming, and for a moment she found it hard to get her bearings. Which way was the haunted house? Then she spotted the main entrance again, and remembered it had been close to that. She grabbed her teddy and set off, passing the trees that lined the bottom edge of the field, and a shed with a corrugated metal roof that looked like it was falling down. A piece of old farming machinery – something that looked like it belonged on the back of a tractor – lay rusting amid the long grass.
A flash of red caught Josie’s eye, and she saw the boy from the football game again, but he wasn’t alone this time. Holding his hand was a clown, with red hair almost as bright as the Liverpool shirt. They were walking away, quite quickly, past a leaning bathtub stained with green and brown streaks. The boy was looking up at the clown and saying something, but she couldn’t see the clown’s face to see if he was talking back. And then they were gone, around the corrugated shed and out of sight towards the trees at the bottom of the field. It seemed an odd way to go – there weren’t any rides or anything in that direction.
Josie stood still for a moment, a strange warm feeling rising from her chest to her throat. She considered going after them, just to check everything was okay, but something kept her feet rooted to the spot. Maybe the clown was his dad, or uncle. And she didn’t have time to hang around anyway. Kim and Bec were waiting for her. She set off once more, and though she thought about looking back, she did not.
There was no queue at the haunted house, so they used the last of their money to go in together. It was scarier than it looked from the outside. You had to walk through, and it was really dark. Things jumped from the walls, and in one part, a hologram made it look like a witch was peering over your shoulder in front of a mirror. The noises were the worst – creaks, and shuffles and cracks that came from every side. Josie was secretly glad she was with her friends, and gripped the large teddy tightly every time there was another shock. Kim’s scream was so loud that Josie’s ears were ringing as they bundled through the exit doors.
‘Dylan?’
A woman about the same age as Josie’s mum was walking in long strides past the front of the haunted house, calling out.
‘Dylan!’
Her eyes scanned left and right, and her face was flushed. For a moment, her gaze passed over Josie and her friends, paused, then moved on. Josie saw her spot a man sitting at a fold-out table near the entrance. She made a stumbling, darting run towards him, pushing past two teenagers.
‘I can’t find my son,’ she said.
The man, who had a bushy moustache and a ruddy, swollen face, looked taken aback for a moment. ‘No kids have come out this way. How old is he?’
‘Seven,’ said the woman. She held out a hand at hip-height. ‘This tall or so. He was wearing a red shirt. I only looked away for a second.’
The warm feeling blossomed again across Josie’s chest. She felt itchy, her breathing shallow and strange.
‘Let’s find your brother,’ said Kim. ‘I really want to try the swingboat!’
‘He’s probably having it off in a bush somewhere,’ said Bec.
‘Yeah,’ said Josie, vaguely. She was looking at the woman, who broke away from the table and put both hands up to her mouth.
‘Dylan!’ she shouted again, her voice panicky.
‘He’s probably with his mates,’ said the organiser.
‘He hasn’t got any mates!’ snapped the woman.
‘Steady on, love. He’ll turn up.’
Josie stepped closer to them. She felt tiny. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I think I might have seen him.’
The woman turned to her, eyes confused and afraid, then suddenly focused. She advanced quickly and gripped Josie’s shoulders so hard it hurt.
‘Dylan? Where? Where did you see him?’
Josie managed to point to the buildings at the edge of the field. ‘Down there. With the clown.’
‘What clown?’ asked the organiser, suddenly interested. He stood up from his seat, and Josie noticed a small patch of his belly showing from the top of his trousers.
‘With red hair,’ she said. ‘They were holding hands.’
The woman released her, and her face moved in a way Josie had never seen before – a sort of crumpling – and she let out a wail that sounded like someone had ripped it from her stomach. She began to run. A few seconds later, the man at the desk waddled after her. Josie stayed where she was, wondering if she’d done the right thing.
‘Come on,’ said Kim. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
‘There’s your brother,’ said Bec, and Josie saw Paul carrying Helen Smith on his shoulders, like she was a prize he’d won on one of the stalls. She turned full circle, watching the rides and the games and the flags of the big top flying. She wanted to see a flash of a red Liverpool shirt, just to tell her that the orange-haired boy called Dylan was okay, even though, somehow, she knew he wasn’t.
Chapter 1 (#u32a9ccde-19eb-53cb-86e5-cbfc2b4a544e)
FRIDAY
Jo tried to ignore the vibration in her jacket pocket and concentrate on what Dr Kasparian was saying.
‘… the cost of the vitrification starts at three thousand pounds for one harvesting procedure, but there are discounted rates for subsequent treatments.’
‘And would you recommend that?’
The doctor – well-tanned, athletic, expensive-looking wire-rimmed spectacles – spread his hands.
‘In most cases, the initial hormone boost should allow us to harvest more than one egg. Of course, probability-wise, you are more likely to conceive the more cycles of fertilisation you undertake.’ He looked at the papers in front of him. ‘Based on your age, any single attempt yields a twenty-two per cent chance of a successful pregnancy.’
‘One in five,’ said Jo flatly.
‘A little better that that,’ replied the doctor.
Not great odds either way. Her phone stopped ringing.
The doctor cocked his head sympathetically and removed his glasses.
‘Ms Masters, I realise this is a big decision for anyone, whether a woman of twenty years, or someone older. No fertility treatment is foolproof. But I can assure you that here at Bright Futures, we are solely concerned with providing you with the best possible care and outcomes. Our protocols are designed to the highest medical technology standards in the field. Our results reflect that – we’re in the top ten percentile points of success.’
‘So three grand?’ said Jo. If she got the promotion to Detective Inspector, it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Do the eggs have a best before date?’
The doctor smiled. ‘Not in practical terms, no.’
‘And can I pay in instalments?’
He looked taken aback. ‘Erm … that isn’t something we usually do.’
Jo stared at him. Told herself not to get flustered. Just be straight.
‘Right, but can you?’
Christ, I sound desperate.
The doctor looked away first. ‘There may be ethical considerations,’ he said. ‘If we were to freeze your eggs, then subsequently, through no fault of your own, the payments were to fall into default—’
‘Is that a “no” then?’
The doctor placed his glasses back on. ‘Perhaps you could excuse me for a moment? Hopefully I can discuss the matter with my colleague.’
Jo nodded and watched him stand up and walk out, leaving her alone in the plush room.
She let her gaze travel around the dark wood furniture, clean lines, books neatly stacked. Perfect, sanitised order. She wondered how much a gynaecological consultant earned. Probably a hell of a lot more than a DS for Avon and Somerset Police. There was a single photo frame on the desk, facing partly away. Jo leant forward to look. It showed Dr Kasparian with a man who must be his partner – dark-haired, well-groomed facial hair, maybe fifty, but with a carefree face that looked ten years younger – and two teenage boys. All hanging off each other on a leather sofa. They looked perfect too.
Good for them.
The door opened and she sat back in her chair.
‘Good news,’ said the doctor. ‘Monthly payments for six months should be fine. Would you like my secretary to start the paperwork, or would you like to go away and think about it? There’s really no rush.’
Isn’t there? thought Jo. Easy for you to say.
She’d have preferred a year of payments, just to be safe, but she could probably afford it over half a dozen instalments.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, and though it galled her to add it, ‘Thank you.’
The phone in her pocket was ringing again.
Just leave me alone, Ben. Just for ten fucking minutes.
* * *
The paperwork didn’t take long, but the questions got more personal as they went along.
First, the basics. Name (Josephine Masters); address (she gave the rented place in the south of the city; didn’t need Ben somehow getting mail about this); DOB (as if she needed reminding); occupation (copper). Then medical history. Clean bill of health, apart from the scare last year; alcohol unit intake (everyone lied, right?); do you smoke (no, but gagging for one right now); last period (the 18th); last instance of sexual intercourse (regrettable); last pregnancy (she paused a moment, wondering whether it was the conception date they wanted, or the date of the miscarriage, then opted for the latter). The secretary tapped deftly at the keyboard with manicured fingers. She was perhaps early twenties, a pretty, natural blonde, combining elegance and amiability in a way Jo could never have managed at that age.
Jo wondered what the young woman thought of her. Did she judge? What did she think of the going-on-forty-year-old sitting opposite, her hair needing a colour, her crow’s feet obvious, her sensible shoes and middle-of-the-range navy suit? Did she wonder why Jo was here, why she didn’t have a partner, if …
You’re getting bitter, Josephine. Stop it.
The bank details came last, and then, when the printouts were signed, they set a tentative date for the hormone infusion. Jo knew she’d have to check her shifts and told them she’d be in touch. She was glad to be out of there, stepping onto a quiet mews street in the shadow of the cathedral. Though in the shade, the summer air was warm. She guessed the cottage would once have held a member of the clerical staff. Now the only sign it was a commercial property was the discreet Bright Futures plaque beside the listed front door.
She checked her phone and saw nine missed calls, all from Ben.
It was almost eleven. She’d blocked out three hours for the meeting, saying she was taking her mother to the doctor’s in Oxford, so she still had forty-five minutes before she was due back at the station for the weekend briefing. It was Paul’s birthday party that night and she still hadn’t got him a present, though she knew exactly the thing. Her brother, like their dad before him, had started balding in his early thirties, and Bath was the sort of city that still had gentlemen’s outfitters. A quick Google had given her a promising place off Wallford Street. She walked across the cobbles, then stepped out into the throng.
Bath was never quiet, of course, but Friday lunchtime in the summer holidays was pretty close to Jo’s idea of hell. An engine of commerce. Tourists jostling with street performers, gaggles of teenagers up to nothing. Workers – mostly Europeans and South Americans – on breaks from jobs at hotels. People spilling out of cafes, bars and shops. And here and there, the city’s true denizens – Jo’s bread and butter. The drug addicts, leaning towards their next fix. The pickpockets, swimming with the tides. The petty criminals who existed in every city; the grit in the machine.
Jo fought through the pedestrians outside the Assembly Rooms before slipping off into a narrower alley, a row of bikes chained up against a set of railings. She found the hat place, and though at first she thought it must be closed, when she pushed the door, it opened, a bell above her clanking. A small, very elderly man with luxuriant white hair and a stoop looked up from behind a counter.
‘Good day to you,’ he said.
Jo smiled at the unexpected chivalry, but just as she was about to speak, her phone rang again. This time the vibration was different.
‘Excuse me!’ she said, and she backed out of the shop to take the call.
‘Why aren’t you answering?’ said Rob Bridges, her DCI back at the station. ‘Ben’s been trying for the last hour.’
It took Jo a moment to gain her composure. ‘With my mum,’ she said. ‘It’s in the diary.’
Bridges breathed a sigh. ‘Fine, can you talk?’
‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve got a body. Bradford-on-Avon. A kid.’
Jo looked at her reflection in the window of the shop, swallowed. ‘Go on.’
‘Thames Valley have already sent someone, but I want you there.’
‘Why Thames Valley?’
‘Something to do with identifying features. They think it’s one of their mispers.’
‘Text me the address,’ said Jo. ‘I’ll call when I’m on my way.’
She hung up. Paul’s present could wait.
* * *
It took Jo three minutes to get back to her car, another seven to get out of the car park. She plugged in the address as she did so, but it looked like it was the middle of a random field. Bradford-on-Avon was a well-to-do market town about five miles out from Bath – all Cotswold stone and shops she could never afford. The sort of place her mum would’ve liked to spend an afternoon, before her world shrank to the four walls of a room in a residential care home. As soon as she was out of traffic, her phone rang again. Ben. This time she answered on the hands-free.
‘I’m on my way,’ she said.
‘So what’s wrong with your mum?’ No pleasantries.
‘Y’know,’ Jo replied airily. ‘What’s right with her? She’s old. I took her to the doctor’s.’
