Chapter 52
Cheryl was exhausted. She’d never have believed that a car ride from St Austell to Exeter, with her mother and Jasmin, the journalist, behind her in the back seats could have left her longing for the peace of her early-morning alone time but it had.
The questions had been non-stop, and Sheila’s attempts to answer them on Cheryl’s behalf had made matters worse.
The two women had continually talked over each other, as Jasmin had tried to get information from Cheryl and Sheila had insisted on being the only one who could respond.
Constantly having to twist round to face them had given her a sore neck.
Then that dreadful meeting with Mr Caiger, when she’d been too nervous to speak and couldn’t remember any of the questions she and Tara had agreed that she would ask.
He’d thought she was a half-wit and had cut the meeting short after only fifteen minutes.
In the car on the way home, her mother had barely been able to contain her fury at how little Cheryl seemed able to relate.
‘He couldn’t tell me anything really,’ she’d kept insisting. ‘Only that they’ll be in touch when the time comes.’
‘Did you tell him you’d lost the token? Don’t tell me you were that stupid,’ Sheila had demanded, more than once.
‘No,’ answered Cheryl, truthfully. ‘I didn’t tell him that.’
‘I think a forensic search of the house might be a good idea, Mrs Young,’ Jasmin had said. ‘I can organise that. Then, perhaps the station can keep it safe for you?’
The two had exchanged a look then, a look that told Cheryl they both knew she’d hidden it somewhere.
There was no way Sheila would let the token out of her hands once she’d found it, but she’d agreed to Jasmin bringing what she called a ‘crew’ over the following afternoon.
There was nowhere in the house, or the garden, where Cheryl could hide the token.
Not from a group of people determined to find it.
In twenty-four hours, it would be in her mother’s possession.
The fire was dying down. They never put coal on it after nine o’clock and the room was getting chilly. The heating was programmed to switch off when Sheila went to bed at ten o’clock. Cheryl made sure the fireguard was in place and turned to leave the room.
The scrapbook was on the small coffee table by Sheila’s armchair.
Cheryl’s mouth dried in an instant. She hadn’t seen the scrapbook in years.
She’d even managed, for the most part, to push its existence to the very back of her mind.
It was a cheap thing, bought years ago for a quid in WHSmith’s.
From memory, only the first five or six pages had been filled.
After that, the source material had run out.
Without thinking what she was doing, Cheryl picked up the book and carried it to the window. Drawing back the curtain a fraction to let in light from outside, her eyes filled with tears, and it was several seconds before the headlines of the first page came into focus.
Search for missing girl continues.
Appeal for witnesses unsuccessful.
And then …
Body found.
Cheryl’s eyes fixed on the last of them as the opening lines of the story came into focus.
The body of a young woman was recovered from the water today by the coastguard.
While formal identification has yet to take place, the sad discovery is likely to bring to an end the seven-day search for nineteen-year-old …
Cheryl closed the book.
Burn it!
No sooner had the thought appeared in her head than she was back at the fire, staring down into the dying embers.
She’d never have to see it again. She moved the guard aside and held the book directly above the coals, feeling the heat of them starting to eat into her skin.
Greedy for fresh, easy fuel, a flame leapt up and caught the bottom corner of the book.
It ignited quickly. After only a couple of seconds Cheryl was forced to drop it, to use the poker to make sure it didn’t fall out onto the hearth.
Only when she saw the book charred beyond recognition did she realise her mistake.
The scrapbook wasn’t proof, just a record of proof.
She’d gained nothing. All she’d done was provoke her mother, who wouldn’t let the destruction of the book go unpunished.
Careless of the scrapbook still burning in the hearth, not even bothering to replace the guard, Cheryl left the room and climbed upstairs.
Her mother was gently snoring. Without turning on lights, Cheryl went into her own room and lowered herself until she lay flat on the carpet.
It was hard to breath like this, but she stretched out until her hand could reach beneath the loose fold of carpet.
For a second, she could feel nothing, and thought her heart might stop beating, but then her fingers touched the cool metal of the token.
Back on her feet, Cheryl collected the half-empty glass of water from her bedside table and carried both it and the token into the bathroom. She filled the glass then, treading carefully, went to stand at the foot of her mother’s bed.
Sheila grunted in her sleep, a spasm of what looked like pain crossing her face.
‘Cheers, Mum,’ said Cheryl. She took a gulp of water first, to refresh her dry mouth. Then she swallowed the token.