Someone You Know. Olivia Isaac-Henry

no doubt some training manual calming technique.

      ‘As a father myself, I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you,’ he says.

      ‘No, you can’t,’ Dad says. ‘No one can ever know.’

      ‘And we won’t be repeating those mistakes, Mr Piper.’

      Dad steps towards Craven.

      ‘Get out,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough.’

      ‘Mr Piper, please.’

      ‘Out.’

      Craven looks to me.

      ‘Perhaps you could come back another time,’ I whisper.

      Dad hears.

      ‘No, you can’t come another time. You’re just a snoop.’

      Craven has already moved to the hall. I follow him and shut the lounge door.

      ‘I can see your father’s upset, it’s understandable. But we’re not looking to implicate the family. DI Vilas hasn’t ruled out a stranger killing. I think the support we can provide…’

      There’s a roar and a crash from the lounge.

      ‘Yes, but not right now.’

      I virtually push Craven through the door and slam it shut, thankful the press have left for the night.

      I run through the hall and back to the lounge. The coffee table lies four feet from Dad, the remains of my sherry dripping down the wall opposite, the glass smashed to pieces on the floor.

      ‘I can’t do this again, Tess. I can’t.’

      Dad falls back onto the sofa and puts his head in his hands. I kneel down beside him.

      ‘We’ll get through this, Dad,’ I say.

      ‘No Tess, you don’t understand,’ he says. ‘This is never going to end. It’ll never be over.’

       Chapter 12

       Edie: September 1993

      ‘I followed him for twenty minutes and he didn’t see me,’ Tess said.

      It was late morning. Tess was in disguise, wearing a woolly hat and an old green anorak that Dad used for gardening. The sleeves swallowed up her arms and the hem hung well below her knees.

      ‘Where did he go?’ Edie asked.

      ‘Only to the newsagents and the chippie. He turned around a couple of times but he never spotted me.’

      Tess was taking her detective duties seriously. The investigation log was an A4-sized notebook, which she’d covered in the same cream with rosebuds wallpaper they’d used for their school textbooks. It was filled with diagrams and notes. She’d drawn a floor plan of the Vickers’ house, a mirror image of their own, with the addition of the small utility room at the back and a sketch of Mrs Vickers with her hair in a chignon.

      Edie had to admit the likeness was impressive. Less impressive were Tess’s conclusions. Valentina was definitely dead. It was just a case of finding her body. Possible hiding places: under the floorboards, in the freezer, buried on waste ground, submerged in the canal. On the front of the book, in thick black marker pen, was written: THE CASE OF THE MISSING CAKEMAKER.

      ‘That’s a really stupid title,’ Edie said.

      ‘Dr Watson always used titles like that for Holmes’ cases.’

      ‘That’s made up, Tess. Police cases are called things like operation something or other.’

      ‘Well, you can call it Operation Cakemaker, if you like, but it’s my book. This afternoon I’m going to go through his bin.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘Clues. He might’ve put Valentina’s clothes in there.’

      ‘She left three weeks ago.’

      ‘I know,’ Tess said. ‘I wish I’d thought of it sooner.’

      Edie wasn’t sure about spending the afternoon riffling through rotting vegetables. Mum rescued her.

      ‘Becca’s just rung. She’s invited us over.’

      ‘But we’ve got plans,’ Tess protested.

      ‘What plans?’ Mum asked.

      ‘Nothing,’ Edie said.

      ‘Good, get your coats. Your dad and Ray’ll come along later.’

      *

      Auntie Becca called it an Indian summer and insisted they sat outside.

      ‘It may be the last good weather we get this year.’

      Edie thought India was supposed to be hot, she was freezing, the low, bright sun was blinding her and the egg mayonnaise sandwich she was eating had fallen apart, its filling leaking down her arm. Mum was in the deckchair opposite, a cup of tea balanced on her lap. She wore black jeans, a camel-coloured jumper and large sunglasses. She’d been quiet since they arrived and sat rubbing her temples. Auntie Becca, oblivious to the cold, was wearing her usual black trousers and black top. Tess had nabbed Auntie Becca’s discarded sunglasses to copy Mum. Edie wished she had some. She moved one hand over her eyes as a shield. Pepe took his chance to jump up and take a bite out of the remains of her sandwich.

      ‘No, Pepe, bad dog,’ Auntie Becca said.

      She didn’t sound like she meant it.

      Pepe ignored her and leapt at Edie again. She moved her arm away, then decided she didn’t want the dog-licked sandwich and threw it to him.

      ‘Don’t give him that. He’s a delicate digestion. It’ll make him sick,’ Auntie Becca said.

      ‘Too late,’ Edie said.

      The dog swallowed it in one gulp and set off running around the garden. Usually Edie liked animals, but she wasn’t sure about this one, all it did was run in circles, bark and eat. It never seemed to lie down or want stroking. A funny looking thing too, a Welsh terrier, with a tan body and black back. She was surprised Uncle Ray had let Auntie Becca have Pepe, she knew he didn’t like dogs. And it was odd that Auntie Becca, who was so fussy and house-proud, wanted one, a dog meant mess. Then there were all those vases and figurines to knock over.

      Pepe hurtled towards the flower bed, growled at a rose bush then ran to the garden gate, put both front paws on top of it and started barking.

      ‘I don’t think we’ll be staying here long, Gina,’ Auntie Becca said.

      ‘No?’

      Auntie Becca and Uncle Ray were always moving and Mum sounded bored. She was no fun today. Edie hoped Uncle Ray would turn up soon. He’d promised her a tape with new tracks and maybe a single on vinyl from the record fair he’d been to the weekend before.

      ‘The garden’s too small for Pepe and as for that lot …’

      Edie knew what was coming: the neighbours, feckless parents and feral kids.

      ‘They let those children run wild. And the parents are no better. We thought this was a nice area.’

      ‘They looked nice enough when I saw them,’ Mum said.

      Edie had also been surprised on seeing that the neighbours wore clean clothes and combed their hair. The word feral made her think of cats, she’d expected them to have mange.

      ‘They may look nice,’ Auntie Becca said.

      ‘Isn’t he a bank manager?’ Mum said.

      ‘That means nothing. That boy, I can’t remember his name, kicked a ball right over the fence