The Silent Twin
Prologue
Abigail and Olivia are dressed differently today. Olivia likes soft colours, but Abigail’s taste suits her personality; vibrant, bright and bold. It makes her easy to find when they play hide and seek on the farmland, but she never tires of the game. Right now, it’s Abigail’s turn to hide.
Abigail’s blonde hair streams behind her as she runs past the hen house, her siren-red wellingtons contrasting with her soil-dusted yellow dungarees. A sliver of an icy breeze whistles through the rain-rotted wood of the empty cattle sheds, which house freshly hatched spiders and field mice within. It creaks and shivers against the growing gale.
Olivia’s voice echoes as the wind whips her words. She is counting through cupped hands, the tips of her fingers lightly touching her forehead as she squeezes her eyes shut . . . ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred. Here I come, ready or not.
Ready or not. The watcher disguises their deceitful expression, but the eyes behind the mask are cold.
Abigail giggles frantically as she searches for a hiding place and runs towards the unused hay barn. There is not a second to spare.
The watcher steps out as Abigail turns the corner, catching her in their shadow, cast by the weakening sun. The outhouse timbers creak, as if to say we know.
Chapter One
Six Hours Gone
Sue patted the chair next to her, keeping her voice low, ‘Jennifer, come take a seat.’
Jennifer discreetly returned a greeting before sitting down beside her old colleague. The briefing room at Haven police station was not the time or place for a reunion . Uniformed officers were still piling in, standing with their backs against the magnolia walls. Top brass was present in the form of Detective Chief Inspector Anderson, whose shadow fell like a slender reed against the projection screen. His short grey hair was cut with exact symmetry, his handkerchief folded in a perfect peak as it peeped from the top pocket of his suit. Known for his efficiency, he was the Senior Investigating Officer in the case of the missing twin, which meant police were taking the child’s disappearance very seriously. DI Ethan Cole sat across from his superior at the front of the room, looking polished and focused in his charcoal suit.
Jennifer flipped open her black leather pocket notebook and clicked the top on her pen. On the top of the page she wrote the time, date, her name, call sign, and location, followed by her role: Family Liaison Officer. It was the first time she would put her training into use, and she hoped her presence would be worthwhile.
She scratched the back of her head with a perfectly manicured nail. Her mahogany hair had been tied into a professional bun while still damp from the shower, but after ten minutes in the airless briefing room, she longed to set it free. Every inch of her felt uptight at the thought of being thrown into such a high-risk case.
Sue leaned into her, the smell of spearmint chewing gum filling the gap between them. ‘How’s Will? Honestly, my heart was in my mouth when he disappeared.’
The subject of DC Will Dunston’s disappearance had been the talk of the station, and it was with much relief that Jennifer delivered a positive update. ‘Much better, thanks,’ Jennifer whispered, as they waited for the briefing to begin. ‘He’ll be back to work soon.’
The door slid shut as the last officer crept in, signalling an end to their conversation. The overhead projector whirred from its mount on the ceiling, and as DCI Anderson pressed the clicker, a series of images came into view. His face was serious, and his eyes held a steely determination Jennifer had seen before – during murder investigations. It was enough to make her sit up and take note, and she worked deftly, scribbling down points of interest in her notebook.
After relaying the background information on the case, DCI Anderson’s stretched hand rested on the interactive whiteboard. A map of Blackwater farm displayed the spot where the nine-year-old child had last been seen at 10 a.m. that morning. A specialist search team had begun searching the house and outbuildings, battling the heavy April showers in their efforts to locate forensic evidence of a potential crime. But there were so many variables. He pointed to the river Blakewater, which ran parallel to the farm, about half a mile down. A request had been put in for the marine unit to attend. His hand swept across the map to Haven woods, thick with forestation and dotted with empty boathouses. Sniffer dogs were being requested, although a local dog handler had already scoped the outskirts of the farm with no luck.
Nobody could criticise the police for a lack of response. DCI Anderson discussed consulting specialist detectives who had worked on high profile cases of missing children in the past. Directions were given with regards to house-to-house enquiries and future press appeals. He pressed the clicker, and an image of an exhibit filled the screen, ceasing the undercurrent of chatter in the room. It was a picture of the little girl’s glasses; Harry Potter style circular frames. A smudge of mud blotted a cracked lens, filling Jennifer with a sense of gloomy foreboding.
Abigail and Olivia are dressed differently today. Olivia likes soft colours, but Abigail’s taste suits her personality; vibrant, bright and bold. It makes her easy to find when they play hide and seek on the farmland, but she never tires of the game. Right now, it’s Abigail’s turn to hide.
Abigail’s blonde hair streams behind her as she runs past the hen house, her siren-red wellingtons contrasting with her soil-dusted yellow dungarees. A sliver of an icy breeze whistles through the rain-rotted wood of the empty cattle sheds, which house freshly hatched spiders and field mice within. It creaks and shivers against the growing gale.
Olivia’s voice echoes as the wind whips her words. She is counting through cupped hands, the tips of her fingers lightly touching her forehead as she squeezes her eyes shut . . . ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred. Here I come, ready or not.
Ready or not. The watcher disguises their deceitful expression, but the eyes behind the mask are cold.
Abigail giggles frantically as she searches for a hiding place and runs towards the unused hay barn. There is not a second to spare.
The watcher steps out as Abigail turns the corner, catching her in their shadow, cast by the weakening sun. The outhouse timbers creak, as if to say we know.
Chapter One
Six Hours Gone
Sue patted the chair next to her, keeping her voice low, ‘Jennifer, come take a seat.’
Jennifer discreetly returned a greeting before sitting down beside her old colleague. The briefing room at Haven police station was not the time or place for a reunion . Uniformed officers were still piling in, standing with their backs against the magnolia walls. Top brass was present in the form of Detective Chief Inspector Anderson, whose shadow fell like a slender reed against the projection screen. His short grey hair was cut with exact symmetry, his handkerchief folded in a perfect peak as it peeped from the top pocket of his suit. Known for his efficiency, he was the Senior Investigating Officer in the case of the missing twin, which meant police were taking the child’s disappearance very seriously. DI Ethan Cole sat across from his superior at the front of the room, looking polished and focused in his charcoal suit.
Jennifer flipped open her black leather pocket notebook and clicked the top on her pen. On the top of the page she wrote the time, date, her name, call sign, and location, followed by her role: Family Liaison Officer. It was the first time she would put her training into use, and she hoped her presence would be worthwhile.
She scratched the back of her head with a perfectly manicured nail. Her mahogany hair had been tied into a professional bun while still damp from the shower, but after ten minutes in the airless briefing room, she longed to set it free. Every inch of her felt uptight at the thought of being thrown into such a high-risk case.
Sue leaned into her, the smell of spearmint chewing gum filling the gap between them. ‘How’s Will? Honestly, my heart was in my mouth when he disappeared.’
The subject of DC Will Dunston’s disappearance had been the talk of the station, and it was with much relief that Jennifer delivered a positive update. ‘Much better, thanks,’ Jennifer whispered, as they waited for the briefing to begin. ‘He’ll be back to work soon.’
The door slid shut as the last officer crept in, signalling an end to their conversation. The overhead projector whirred from its mount on the ceiling, and as DCI Anderson pressed the clicker, a series of images came into view. His face was serious, and his eyes held a steely determination Jennifer had seen before – during murder investigations. It was enough to make her sit up and take note, and she worked deftly, scribbling down points of interest in her notebook.
After relaying the background information on the case, DCI Anderson’s stretched hand rested on the interactive whiteboard. A map of Blackwater farm displayed the spot where the nine-year-old child had last been seen at 10 a.m. that morning. A specialist search team had begun searching the house and outbuildings, battling the heavy April showers in their efforts to locate forensic evidence of a potential crime. But there were so many variables. He pointed to the river Blakewater, which ran parallel to the farm, about half a mile down. A request had been put in for the marine unit to attend. His hand swept across the map to Haven woods, thick with forestation and dotted with empty boathouses. Sniffer dogs were being requested, although a local dog handler had already scoped the outskirts of the farm with no luck.
Nobody could criticise the police for a lack of response. DCI Anderson discussed consulting specialist detectives who had worked on high profile cases of missing children in the past. Directions were given with regards to house-to-house enquiries and future press appeals. He pressed the clicker, and an image of an exhibit filled the screen, ceasing the undercurrent of chatter in the room. It was a picture of the little girl’s glasses; Harry Potter style circular frames. A smudge of mud blotted a cracked lens, filling Jennifer with a sense of gloomy foreboding.