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“Well, check the surrounding area,” he shouts. “Anything you have. Find me that fucking van.”
They scroll through car after car on the junction, studying each one carefully. Daylight creeps into shot, footage from this morning now, shadows growing shorter as the day progresses. But still nothing. The time stamp creeps frustratingly closer to their current time. He must have used a different route, taken another way out. But then a detective shouts from another screen. And there it is.
“Follow it,” Adam barks. He checks the map. It’s one of the roads leading away from the Cole house. The timing is right: before they got there. Pippa must be inside. They missed her by a mere fifteen minutes.
Adam cranes forward on his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. The detectives not working on the CCTV come over and watch, curiosity too strong to concentrate on their own lines of inquiry.
The VW drives through streets Adam knows only too well. Roads change to a residential area, then it goes out of shot again.
“What streets are around that area?” Adam shouts.
“Brown Street, York Road, Robertson Avenue …”
The realization hits Adam hard, making him reel. A punch in the face, right between the eyes. But he can’t be … To go back there …
“Oh God,” he whispers. “Jamie.”
CHAPTER
35
JAMIE’S HAND SHAKES as he puts his key in the lock. He pushes the front door open slowly. A part of him—a very small part—thinks Pippa will be there to greet him. Her bright smile. Her hug and kiss and “here you are!” Tempting smells wafting from the kitchen, where she would have been cooking dinner. But there’s nothing. The stale air of a house untouched.
He closes the door behind him and takes off his coat. All his limbs feel heavy, every movement effort. He hangs it up and leaves his small overnight bag at the foot of the stairs.
He stands in the doorway to his living room. The initial relief when that woman slashed to death in the grass hadn’t been Pippa has been overtaken by the grim knowledge that he still has her. What is he doing? This man, who has slashed and stabbed and inflicted unimaginable pain on seven people, has his wife captive.
And Pippa had been there. At that house. In the same building Cole killed those women. Jamie wonders if Pippa had realized where she was and the fates of the women who had been there before her. Had she panicked, screamed? His stomach contracts at the thought of her fear, his legs almost buckling underneath him, and he collapses down to the sofa. He puts his head into his hands. If Adam had gotten there sooner, if they’d broken down the door minutes, hours earlier, Pippa might be back with him now.
But Adam had been too late.
She had gone. Again.
He wipes his eyes, breathing slowly. His living room seems normal. Strangely so. The mess of the SOCOs and the police and the bustle and chaos had been more fitting than this order. How can the cushions be neat when his whole life has been destroyed? He expected the mess from the crime scene techs and wonders who tidied up. Some thoughtful person not wanting him to return to a messy house? He walks through to the kitchen, and it’s the same. The draining board clear, sides all wiped down. Tidier than if they’d been living here.
His phone rings in his pocket, and he pulls it out. Bishop, it says. He hesitates. He’s had the same feeling about Adam’s calls since Pippa went missing. He could be phoning to say they’d found her—alive. Or he could be calling to tell him the opposite. Before he answers it, both outcomes are possible, Schrödinger messing with his head.
He clicks on the green button.
“Have you found her?” he asks before Adam can speak.
“No, but—”
Jamie takes the phone away from his ear and ends the call. He doesn’t want to hear it. He knows he shouldn’t blame Adam, but he does. Bishop is the SIO, the man in charge. The best they have, if all the reports and accolades are anything to go by. So why can’t he close the one case that matters?
The phone rings again, but this time Jamie ignores it.
“Fucking find her,” he mutters, muting the ringtone.
He places it back in his pocket and slowly trudges upstairs. All the doors on the landing are closed, the tidying fairy at work again, Jamie thinks. He pushes on the handle to their bedroom and opens the door.
Even before he steps inside, Jamie feels that something is wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, his skin prickles. The room is completely dark, the curtains closed. And there is a strange smell. Unpleasant. Something sour, gone rotten.
He takes one step inside, then stops again. His eyes adjust to the dim light, and now he can make out shapes. He looks toward the bed. The duvet is neat, but there is a lump under it. A body-shaped lump. Someone sleeping on Pippa’s side of the bed.
His heart jumps. He wants to leap forward, his mind racing toward the assumption that she’s here, she’s home. She came back and went straight to bed, she was so tired. It was all a big misunderstanding, a mistake—
But Jamie’s frozen. He instinctively knows that’s not the case.
