Chapter 32
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 Evelyn Smith 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, feel grounded, 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 studied it, 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?”
“By drugs. She took an overdose. She was an addict.”
He nodded, the questions around false sympathy in his head now gone.
“It isn’t the same – nothing will be the same. We’ll catch who did this, you know.” For the first time I believed what I was saying. The connection was between the victims, seemingly scattergun apart from social media and all the same age. “Do you remember the name Brooke O’Hara?”
He shook his head. “I knew there was a girl called Brooke. Sonya might remember her surname. Shall I go and get her? She’ll be embarrassed about crying like that.”
“If you would. Do you have any photos from those holidays? That could be helpful too.”
He stood up. “Let me speak to Sonya. We still have Morgan’s room here. We haven’t really changed it – said we’d update it if we ever had grandkids. She had scrapbooks in there that she liked to keep with photos and things in them. Use to keep her occupied for a couple of hours.”
I watched him head out of the living room, listening to his footsteps climb the stairs.
I used being on my own to message Wrigley, giving the connection between Morgan, Chelsea and Evelyn.
Dolly and Kelly or Brooke were other names mentioned, which made me think about Kelly-Anne, although that seemed too much of a stretch right now.
Both of Morgan’s parents appeared, her mum red-eyed and puffy, her dad solemn and serious.
“Do you want to see Morgan’s room?” Sonya asked. “We should’ve shown it you before. Mike says you think the fact that Chelsea and Morgan were friends as kids means this wasn't random like the papers are saying.” More tears, her words choked.
I chose my words carefully. “There’s possibly a connection between the girls. Brooke O’Hara and Evelyn knew each other. Evelyn had that photo of her and Morgan on her wall. Do you remember Brooke O’Hara?”
“I remember a Kelly, but not her surname. Morgan and Leah’s best friend there was a girl called Sophie – Sophie Davies.
She lived in Warrington and the girls stayed in touch with her for a couple of years after we stopped going to Aberwyn.
Mike mentioned scrapbooks – there are definitely a couple from the Aberwyn summers.
Let me show you.” It was something to do, a way of feeling useful when there was little else that could be done.
I followed her as she went quickly out of the room and up the stairs, heading towards a room up a few more steps that led under the eaves.
It was a pretty house, maybe a bit too small for a couple with two teenaged daughters, but maybe too big now.
I wondered whether they’d stay here, trying to preserve the memories of when the girls were younger and they could keep them safe, or whether those memories would be dull knives, too painful over time, the same bruise being jabbed over and over and over.
“This is Morgan’s room – was, I mean. I don’t think she changed much.
Her bedroom at their apartment looked like this, just more grown up.
” She stood in the middle of it, appraising the photos and posters, the shelves full of teenage fiction and some classics, a few stuffed teddies, arranged to make them look whimsical rather than childish.
There was a bookcase with what looked like A-level revision guides on it, along with some Peter Rabbit ornaments that I would guess were a christening gift.
“It’s a lovely room.” The bed was still made up, a simple white duvet cover with ruffles at the edge. It was very girly. Sweet.
My bedroom as a kid had been a whirlwind of a teenage crisis, clothes in piles, an unmade bed continuously, a spread of make-up, most of it on the floor and a ton of sports clothes in various states of needing washing. Utterly different from this.
“The scrapbooks are here.” She crouched down onto the carpet, looking at the bottom shelf of the bookcase. There was a pile of scrapbooks neatly piled up, the sort of organisation I could only dream of.
I crouched next to her, pulling the top one off the pile carefully.
“Would you like a cup of tea while you’re looking through them?” Sonya stood suddenly and I understood that this was now too much.
“That would be lovely. I won’t be too long in here.”
“There’s no need to rush. We’re both off work and we have nowhere to be. Just a funeral to plan that we shouldn’t have to. You will catch him, won’t you? The man who’s doing this to those young women.” She choked up again, backing away towards the door.
“We will.”
She left without asking how I took my tea, needing air, needing to be someone else, or the person she was a couple of weeks ago when both her daughters were safe and well.
I looked through the scrapbooks, beautifully put together with photos and stickers and cute little doodles, drawn in different coloured gel pens. I expected that once they’d have been scented, and that would’ve been part of the fun.
Morgan had also been fastidious in leaving captions below every picture – where it was and who was in it: her, her mum and dad, Leah, grandparents and someone called Lauren.
And there it was, three scrapbooks in. Photos of Aberwyn on the beach there, Morgan with her sister, and then with friends, all neatly labelled underneath with their names.
Chelsea
Brooke
Evelyn
Dolly
Sophie
Kelly-Anne
Some pictures were of Morgan and one or more of the others, some had boys in them, and Leah, but in one year, lots of them were of the six girls, Kelly-Ann in a handful, Sophie in three or four.
There was the link we’d been searching for.
I carried on studying the photos, looking at the boys in them, noticing the reoccurring names, Brad, Lennon, Craig, Marc. A photo of Evelyn and Lennon together, Brad and Craig, who looked like brothers, a boys versus girls football match on the beach.
Idyllic summers.
Carefree days before going back to school with the realities of homework and exams and what it might be like to grow up and how unprepared we all were.
Days that would never be repeated, because the next time we had that freedom, it would be post-work, post being young, when you knew things weren’t endless.
I picked up three of the scrapbooks, carrying them downstairs. Morgan’s dad was sitting in the lounge, staring at a TV that wasn’t switched on.
“It is okay if I take these? I’ll make sure you get them back as soon as possible.” I lifted the scrapbooks as if it wasn’t obvious what I meant.”
He nodded, not looking at me. “That’s fine. Are you okay if you see yourself - ” he didn’t want to be rude, but he needed me gone. I had no idea where Sonya was but I understood.
“Of course. Take care.” You won’t be okay, but that’s alright, you’re not meant to be. Things will be different, but there will always be a glimmer if you can find it. And it doesn’t get easier, it becomes different.
I got into my car, the scrapbooks on the passenger seat, tappings of rain beginning to drop on the windscreen.
Different. But different didn’t mean wrong.