Page 73 of The Unforgiven

He stood up, putting the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans. “Because he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, so it felt appropriate. Do two things for me.”

“Why should I? I don’t even know your real name, yet you know where I lived and that my boyfriend’s shagging my flatmate. There seems to be a power imbalance here.” I took a gulp of too hot coffee and swallowed it before I spat it out.

He nodded, as if he was saying he understood what I meant, fidgeting with his jacket. “Taz. That’s all I can give you right now. I’m not associated with Stan or anyone from that world. Two things – watch your back, and for fuck’s sake, get rid of that arsehole you’ve been seeing. You can do better.” He picked up the coffee, shot me a smile and headed out of the café, leaving me with the rest of my drink, a burnt mouth and a feeling of being betrayed.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Morgan and Leah Skelton’s parents lived in Chester, in a picture postcard village a few miles out of the city walls. They were expecting me, both of them coming to the door to let me in, sombre and colourless and exactly as you’d expect given they’d just lost a child.

I introduced myself and entered an immaculate home, well-designed and tidy, condolence cards littering several surfaces and big bunches of flowers in pretty vases filling the house with scent.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you at this time.” It was a pithy statement, obvious and unnecessary. I was a reminder of what had happened to their daughter, a parent’s second worst nightmare after the actual murderer.

“Anything we can do to help.” Mr Skelton led the way into a lounge that was a lot smaller but a lot more homely than Kristian Chambers’ polished place. I knew which one I’d rather have, given the choice.

“We’re looking into a missing woman who we believe may have a connection to Morgan. I have a photo taken from her home to show you. I think the picture is of a girl called EvelynSmith with Morgan, and the place is Aberwyn in North Wales.” I handed them a printout of the photo I’d taken.

I wanted them to feel the paper, to sit and look at it in a different way than you did on a screen, without a window to peer through. Paper was tangible, real, it moved between your fingers and had texture.

“That’s right,” Morgan’s mother spoke quietly. “That’s Aberwyn. We went there for three summers when the girls were just starting secondary school. I wasn’t working at the time, and you were working away.” She looked at her husband. “We went to the caravan for the whole of the summer. The girls were busy playing on the beach and running wild, which was how I wanted them to remember those summers.” She grew tearful, fighting back another flood.

“Do you remember the girl Morgan’s with in the picture?” I prompted, for the first time feeling a twinge in my gut that we were onto something here, something that connected the victims.

Morgan’s dad took hold of the photo and stared at it, almost becoming lost in the sea in the picture. “I wasn’t around much – every other weekend really – but I remember her. She had a boyfriend one summer, another lad from the holiday park, and Morgan and Leah thought it was scandalous. I remember saying to them that it would be them one day.”

Morgan’s mum sipped her tea, nodding, glancing at the photo. “Yes, that was Evelyn. I remember her quite well. She was a nice girl, very polite but boy mad.”

“Do you remember any other children there?”

The couple looked at each other, as if trying to pull on shared, scattered memories.

“There were lots of kids, some for a week or two, some who stayed the whole summer like us.” Mrs Skelton smoothed the sleeves of her jumper, needing to touch something, feelgrounded, I supposed. “Evelyn was there one year. There was a girl called Dolly too – I think her name was Dorothy, but it was shortened to Dolly. She was a handful, and I think Morgan found her a bit much, if you know what I mean.”

“Why was she a bit much?”

“Bossy. A bit of a ringleader. There was another girl called Chelsea, who was a bit like Dolly. Her family were tricky for the site staff to manage, quite a few complaints were made against them, and they ended up being banned. I didn’t like Morgan and Leah hanging around with Chelsea or going in their lodge.” She wiped her eyes again. “But I didn’t tell them who to be friends with.”

“Was Chelsea’s surname Bainbridge, do you remember?”

There was a sudden sound from Morgan’s dad, as if he’d just been struck and was in pain. “That’s why the name sounded familiar. We read it in the newspapers after Morgan – the other two girls he’s killed. I just didn’t think of it - that it was the same Chelsea.”

I waited, wanting to see if there were any other recollections that came to mind.

Nothing. Just silence. Realisation.

“Why would he want to kill our Morgan? She was such a gentle girl – loved her job and the children that she taught, and her books. There’s no reason, and now we don’t have her anymore.” Mrs Skelton ran out of the room, sobs fracturing the otherworldly stillness the house had accrued.

“I’m sorry,” her husband rubbed at his eyes. “It’s just – I don’t think we’ve been able to accept it yet. I don’t know if we ever will.”

“You won’t. Everything has changed and it won’t ever be the same. The pain will still be there but it’ll feel different over time. All of it is valid.” The words felt harsh, but necessary. I’d dealt with grief, through my job and my own. I’d studiedit, experienced it, breathed it. Not always because of death, but because of an ending, of something lost.

“How do you know?”

“My mother died.”

He looked at me, unsure, not believing what I was saying because I was a police officer rather than a person, here to fulfil a role.

“Was she killed?”