Chapter Sixteen #2
‘I’ve arranged for the car to be towed,’ DCI Gary Quinn says, picking up the cup of builder’s tea I’ve made him, intense and sugary. He takes a small sip.
‘Thank you,’ I say. I know this isn’t part of his job, but he’s always gone out of his way for us. The fact he’s driven here all the way from Bristol makes me realise just how much he cares about us, and I attempt a grateful smile.
‘I’m going to see what I can pull from CCTV, if I can spot any cars matching the description of the one you’ve given me.
Get a plate reading. I’ll do the best I can,’ he promises, and while I may not have a lot of faith in the justice system, I know he’s speaking the truth.
He will do his best to find out what he can.
It’s what he’s always done for us. Sometimes I’m sure he’s put us before his own family, if he even has one.
I don’t know. But he’s definitely worked longer hours than any person ever should.
‘You’d think after all this time people would just leave us alone,’ James says, beside himself. He hasn’t sat down since I told him about the crash; he’s just been pacing, rubbing incessantly at his jaw, pulling the sagging skin on his neck that he’s always been self-conscious about as he’s aged.
‘I’m sorry this has happened to you,’ Quinn breathes out, his eyes soft, the colour of the sky on a cloudless day. There’s the beginning of what looks like cataracts starting in them, reminding me just how long this man has been in our lives.
I wonder if he’s ever looked at me and noticed my own deterioration.
When we met the night Robin was taken, I didn’t have a grey strand in sight and had only a whisper of wrinkles starting to appear on my forehead.
Grief and turmoil age you faster — and DCI Gary Quinn has experienced both every single day of his career, not just mine but countless other families’ grief and turmoil too.
What must that be like, to witness so much sadness every single day you get up and go to work?
I’m glad I don’t know. It isn’t the kind of job you can just leave at the door when you get home — these cases have stayed with him.
I see them deeply rooted behind those blue eyes of his.
‘If there’s anything else you remember please give me a call, you have my number. Use it any time.’ He nods at me, unsmiling but kind, gentle.
Now is the time to speak up, to tell my husband and DCI Gary Quinn about Raven, while the girls are back in the lounge finishing up the film, distracted.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
The bloodied pad keeps coming into my mind, the need to get to the guestroom and hope to God it’s still there, as vile as it is.
I need to extract her DNA from it. I need to get confirmation that this girl is Robin before I say anything.
If I hand it over to the police, I won’t be the first to know — and I may never know the truth because how often does evidence get tampered with?
With a case this big, there are a lot of people who may want to change the results that come in.
No. This feels like something I need to be in control of. I need the answers. Only then can I let James and the police in fully and explain what has really been going on.
DCI Gary Quinn finishes his tea, gathers up his paperwork and leaves none the wiser — and part of me does wonder if I’ve just made a giant mistake. One that might cost me everything. Our safety, maybe even our lives? After today, I really don’t feel like I’m being that dramatic in thinking that.
James cradles me in the kitchen, breathing deeply. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you,’ he mumbles.
His fingers press into my shoulders, kneading and massaging the pain away.
‘I’ll run you a bath, take the girls out with me to walk Alfie so you can relax a bit,’ he says, kissing the back of my head.
Under any other circumstances, I’d beg him to stay. I don’t necessarily want to be alone right now — I’m so shaken up — but with him and the girls out of the house, I’ll have time to get into the guestroom and do what I need to do.
* * *
A strong scent of sage and sea minerals overpowers the steaming bathroom as I enter. I look longingly at the full bath, hoping I’ll have time to enjoy it once I’ve collected Raven’s DNA.
Cracking open the window just slightly, I push up on my tiptoes and peer out, watching as James, Skyla, Raven and Alfie disappear down the drive. As soon as they’re a good distance away, I fly down the staircase and grab a pair of gloves from the cupboard under the sink.
As I rip open the DIY DNA testing kit, a small card the size and shape of a business card slips out, its sharp edge nicking my leg. I pick it up and read the warning written in bold red lettering.
IT IS ILLEGAL TO COLLECT A PERSONS DNA FOR TESTING WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT.
I swallow back the fear this instantly erupts inside me, because I already know this.
DCI Gary Quinn has said as much to me in the past, when I’ve previously thought someone has been Robin.
Parental responsibility consent would be needed to get hold of the DNA of someone under the age of sixteen, he’d told me once.
There are forms to sign included in the kit.
Forms Raven’s mother Vicky should be signing with a strictly black pen if I could only ask her, but she’s away again and I don’t have time to waste.
As I touch the nib of the pen to the dotted line, I exhale.
Fraud. This is fraud, isn’t it? Am I going to get done for forgery?
I close my eyes and think up a signature before letting the pen glide across the paper.
I can’t think about the consequences right now.
I just need answers. The truth. I can worry about the rest later, confront Vicky and ask her if we can perform a DNA test, follow the legalities if we must. I can tell her Raven’s been telling me who she is, all of which is true.
No one need know about these specific DNA samples and test. These are just for me, so I can stop feeling crazy and get some answers.
I study the instructions carefully before taking what I need and head back up the stairs.
The door to the guestroom unlocks, swinging open to reveal the room that never used to feel so cold and uninviting before.
Perhaps the most unsettling of all is finding nothing out of place or bizarre this time.
The room appears untouched. The bedsheets smooth, made perfectly.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Alarmed, I think maybe she’s cleaned out the bedside drawer.
While I’m sure I could think of another way to get her DNA, a used tissue, strands of her hair — I know nothing could be as accurate as that bloodied pad.
A hair could easily be Skyla’s or mine, or even Alfie’s.
A tissue may not have enough DNA on it to sample.
That pad, as disgusting as it is, holds the information I need.
I snap on the yellow rubber gloves and pull the drawer open.
My mouth parts in disgust as I look inside.
Now not one pad is scrunched up in there, but several.
I swallow my revulsion, thinking, there’s a reason she’s doing this.
Does she know I’ll be wanting to collect her DNA?
Is she hiding her pads in here, so I don’t find them in the bin she knows I empty every Monday morning?
And if that is what she’s doing, wouldn’t she only be wanting to hide her true identity if she isn’t Robin?
Because she’s having fun tormenting me, playing mind games with me, making me believe she’s my missing daughter.
I pluck up one of the pads, pulling a face as I handle it. It has dried and gone crusty with a sharp metallic smell to it that makes me want to gag. What am I doing?
Skyla’s DNA is easier to collect, and nowhere near as sickening.
After I’ve collected what I need I seal the envelope provided in the test kit, handling it like it could burst into flames at any moment.
This little white envelope holds the truth, and a part of me is scared to release it into the world, scared of what comes next.
What if it gets lost in transit? What if it gives me answers I’m not ready for?
What if, what if, what if? But I must, simply must find out.
Even if it does reveal something awful — but what would that be?
Would Raven being my daughter be the nightmare, or her pretending to be?
I just can’t imagine the baby I’ve been pining for all these years to have turned into Raven — and yet, her likeness to Skyla is glaringly obvious. To me at least.
I go to the post office, riding out a painfully long queue, and eventually pay for express delivery to speed up the process of the results, and I’m told the lab will send me a confirmation when they receive the samples I send in. Now, all I can do is wait.