No Turning Back, page 25
‘I was.’
‘You admired his work.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘If our theory is correct, and your father was the Ophelia Killer—’ Anna flinched ‘—if our theory is correct, then maybe you knew about it.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I was eleven when those boys died.’
‘An impressionable young mind. Maybe he told you about what he did?’
Anna closed her eyes.
‘Or you saw the photos he had of the crime scenes,’ he continued. ‘That can have quite an effect on a young mind. Some negative, others positive. Maybe you grew obsessed with it all.’
There was a knock on the door. The officer opened it, air rushing in, a brief respite from the cloying heat in the small room. Another officer gestured for the detective to join him.
‘Just be a moment,’ he said, leaving the room.
Anna turned to her solicitor, Jeremy. ‘How long will this go on?’
‘He can’t keep you much longer, Anna,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his bald head with a hanky.
‘This is all ludicrous.’
Jeremy sighed. ‘I know.’
The detective came in and sat down. ‘Well, our theory has just become fact. Your mother has given a statement confirming your father was the Ophelia Killer.’
Anna felt like the ground had collapsed beneath her. It had been a possibility in her mind, yes, but she hadn’t truly believed it, couldn’t. She thought of her wonderful father, saw him smiling at her, the sun winking behind his shoulder.
‘Oh God,’ Anna whispered.
‘Your mother broke down when she was told about your brother’s death,’ Detective Morgan said. ‘She said she discovered your father was the Ophelia Killer just before he died. That might even be why he committed suicide, knowing his wife knew.’
Images of her father’s broken body came to her, interspersed with Leo’s.
Anna felt herself grow faint. ‘Can I have some more water, please?’
The detective nodded at the officer standing by the door who disappeared outside.
‘Now let’s go forward twenty years,’ the detective said, pushing the photo of Elliot towards her. She turned away, unable to see another dead boy. ‘Elliot Nunn. What triggered that, Anna?’
‘What do you mean? You know what happened.’
The detective nodded. ‘Seeing him must have been strange though. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin. It must have brought back memories of the boys your father killed, ignited something inside you? Is that why you targeted him? Because he looked like them?’
Anna slumped against her chair, exhausted. She just couldn’t keep saying it over and over.
‘Detective Morgan,’ Jeremy said. ‘You’ve kept Anna for nearly ten hours now. You have two hours left to produce definitive evidence or you must release her.’
Detective Morgan shuffled the photos up and stood up. ‘Take her back to her cell then,’ he said to the officer standing behind him.
When Anna got to the cell, she lay on the lumpy bed staring up at the ceiling.
Her dad was the Ophelia Killer?
Tears ran down her face, pooling on the pillow below.
Maybe that’s where she got her darkness from? She’d inherited it. How else was she able to kill a young boy?
An hour later, the door opened again.
‘You’re free to go,’ Detective Morgan said.
She sat up, confused. ‘Free?’
‘For now.’
Officers led her outside with Jeremy towards her gran’s familiar car. Anna felt a surge of relief. She ran towards it then paused when she realised her mother was in the passenger seat, her eyes red as she stared ahead.
‘She can’t be alone right now,’ Florence said, leaning over to open the back door for Anna to get in.
Anna climbed in and Beatrice’s eyes rose to meet hers in the wing mirror, unblinking. Then she looked away.
‘You knew about Dad?’ Anna asked, gripping her seat to lean forward and look at her mother. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Florence looked between Anna and Beatrice. ‘Tell you what?’
‘Dad was the Ophelia Killer,’ Anna said, tripping over the words as she tried to comprehend it. ‘Mum knew.’
Florence gasped as she looked at her daughter. ‘My God, Beatrice, why didn’t you say?’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘I can’t talk about this now. My little boy has gone.’ Her voice sounded robotic as she said that, her eyes staring into the distance.
They drove back in silence, Beatrice staring ahead, Florence’s knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. Anna stared out at the sea, grappling with the idea that her father had killed all those boys. Dark clouds were gathering, the sea starting to twist and turn in a tumultuous dance.
When Anna got back to her gran’s house, Beatrice said she needed to go to bed and disappeared into one of the guestrooms, slamming the door shut behind her.
Florence sank onto the sofa, putting her head in her hands. Anna went to her, slipping her arms around her.
‘I’m sorry this is happening,’ Anna said.
Florence peered up at her through tear-drenched eyelashes. ‘I can’t believe your mother has kept that secret in her heart all this time. No wonder she’s the way she is.’
Anna stood up, pacing the room. ‘Okay, so if Dad was the Ophelia Killer, then who pushed Leo? Who killed Ben Miller? And who’s sending me those emails?’
‘Darling,’ Florence said, ‘you’re exhausted. Please let me make you something to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Anna said, continuing to pace the room, her mind running over everything she knew. If she could just figure it all out, she could prove her innocence.
Florence rose and gently took Anna’s shoulders, stopping her. ‘You haven’t slept. Sit down, stop pacing, eat.’
Anna slumped down on the sofa, trying to make her tired brain go through everything. She felt something was there, spinning just out of grasp. But did she have the strength to reach for it?
She paused, noticing something peeking out of her mother’s bag. A small edition of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. She pulled it out. The front cover of the book featured the Ophelia painting by John Everett Millais, Ophelia lying half submerged in water, palms facing up to the skies, head back as though she were waiting for something, someone, to take her. Anna looked at the girl’s face, her abandonment, the sadness too in the way the flowers scattered around her head.
She thought of Ben Miller when she found him dead, and the photos of all the Ophelia Killer’s victims – her father’s victims.
Anna looked out towards the angry sea, imagined going out there and submerging herself, wading in farther and farther, no turning back.
No, she wasn’t her father or her mother. She’d fight this.
As she went to put the book back into her mother’s bag, something fell out. She picked it up to see it was a small colour drawing of a boy submerged in water, a beautiful boy with dark hair, blue eyes staring up into nothingness surrounded by flowers.
Her eyes lowered to the title and signature at the bottom.
Peter by Beatrice Lowell
Anna walked into the kitchen, the painting fluttering like butterfly wings in her hands. ‘Did Peter Nunn drown?’ Anna asked her gran.
Florence looked at the painting. ‘He was found in the sea by the lighthouse.’
‘I thought he’d had an accident at The Docks?’
‘Yes, he hit his head. They think he collapsed a few hours later and fell into the sea.’
‘Did Mum see him dead?’ Anna asked.
Florence shook her head. ‘Not from what I know. She may have drawn that from her imagination.’
‘Strange thing to do.’
Anna walked to the room her mother was sleeping in.
‘Mum?’ she whispered, knocking on the closed door. No answer. She knocked again then opened the door to find an empty bed, the French doors leading out to the beach open.
‘She’s gone,’ Anna shouted out.
Her gran walked to the French doors, stepping outside, raindrops starting to fall on her head. ‘Beatrice?’ she called out. She shook her head, eyes filled with worry as she pulled the doors shut. ‘No sign of her.’
Anna looked around the room. ‘She’s taken her mobile phone and cardigan.’
‘She’s probably heading back to the bungalow. Let me call her.’
As Florence called her and left a message, Anna looked back down at the drawing. ‘It can’t be a coincidence Mum drew Peter like this. Maybe he was discovered like this? Maybe he was the first victim?’
She thought of the shape cutter found in the lighthouse, and the hair the detective had mentioned.
Would the hair turn out to be Peter’s?
‘I don’t know,’ Florence said, her face dubious. ‘Everyone said it was an accident at The Docks.’
‘Was it witnessed?’ Anna asked.
‘No idea.’
‘He was a love rival for Dad, wasn’t he? I mean, Dad had a motive to kill him. Or maybe they argued, his death was an accident. But it triggered something in Dad…he enjoyed it.’ She closed her eyes, not quite believing she was talking about her own father. ‘But then why would Dad be digging his death up again all those years later?’ she said, thinking of what Kiara had said about him delving into Peter’s death. ‘And why the time gap between Peter’s death and the other killings if it triggered something?’ She looked at her mother’s drawing again. ‘Peter looked like the other victims, didn’t he? Dark hair, blue eyes.’
Florence nodded. ‘I suppose he did.’
Anna tapped her finger on the painting. ‘Why would Mum draw this?’
‘She did obsess about the death a lot,’ Florence said, brow furrowing. ‘This isn’t the first of the drawings she did like this, her father and I started to get concerned about it. She seemed strangely fixated with how Peter died.’
‘In the sea, surrounded by flowers…’ Anna looked towards the open French doors. ‘Maybe she was there when Peter died?’
‘No, Anna,’ Florence said. ‘She would have said.’
‘Not if she didn’t want people to know.’ Anna went very still. ‘What if Mum wanted Peter dead for some reason? What if she and Dad were working together and Mum’s just been carrying on his work? There are serial killing couples: Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. The Wests.’ Anna shuddered. ‘Or Mum did it all herself, she’s the only one to see Dad with the last victim, after all.’
‘Anna, that’s ridiculous! She wouldn’t kill her own son!’
Anna realised Florence was right. ‘I know, I know.’ Anna put her hands up to her head. ‘I feel like my brain’s going to explode.’
Her gran came to her, pulling Anna into her arms. ‘Stop, poppet, just stop and give yourself a break from all this torment. You’ve just lost your brother, give yourself time to grieve.’
‘But there’s no time! Detective Morgan is probably right this minute finding some kind of ludicrous reason to charge me again. He won’t stop until he gets me behind bars and then I won’t see Joni.’
Florence pulled away and looked into Anna’s eyes. ‘This is all about Joni, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Then for Joni’s sake, rest, refresh yourself, then we’ll come back to this tomorrow. We need this evening to grieve. I’ll keep trying to call your mother.’
Anna felt herself relax against her gran. ‘Okay,’ she whispered.
That night, Anna tried her best to sleep. But the rain had grown heavier, lashing against the window, the sea a roar so loud it drove sleep away. Anna twisted and turned in her bed, the drawing her mother had done running through her mind. She still hadn’t returned and she wasn’t answering the phone at the bungalow either. Florence had called the police and they promised to keep an eye out for her. But until she was missing for a substantial amount of time, it was hard for them to dedicate extra resources to finding her.
Anna veered between being worried for her mother to being suspicious of her. After being told her father was the Ophelia Killer, nobody seemed beyond the realms of possibility now.
Eventually, Anna fell asleep but was woken by the sound of her phone ringing. Outside, the storm was in full force, thunder crashing across the skies, lightning turning the room white. Anna grabbed the phone, seeing it was Guy. Panic gripped her as she looked at the clock. Two in the morning. Why would he be calling that time of night?
‘What’s wrong, Guy?’ she asked when she answered it, a terrible feeling of foreboding running through her.
‘Your mother’s taken Joni.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Your mother just turned up,’ Guy said, the sound of thunder in the distance. ‘Told me Joni was in danger and she couldn’t stay with me. She was acting crazy, Anna. There was no way I was going to hand Joni over. I went to call you, leaving my mother with her, but then I heard something. I ran inside and – and Mum said your mother had shoved her, grabbed Joni. Last I saw was her driving off with Joni in the back.’
Anna put her hand to her mouth. ‘My God. Have you called the police?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good, that’s good,’ Anna said, jumping off the bed.
‘I’m in the car now, we’re heading to your mum’s bungalow,’ Guy said.
‘You think that’s where she’s gone?’
‘That’s all I can think. The police’ll be there too. She’ll be there in about five minutes or so if she puts her foot down.’
‘I’ll go there now.’ Anna grabbed some jeans and pulled them on under her nightdress. ‘Gran!’ she shouted, running into Florence’s room. She froze. Her gran’s bed was empty.
‘Gran?’ she said, running downstairs.
But the house was deathly silent, horribly empty.
She ran into the living room for her car keys then paused. A vase was toppled over, cushions scattered across the floor as though there had been a struggle. She must’ve not heard whatever had happened above the noise of the storm. Laid out on the table was a large scrapbook, just like the ones she’d seen in the lighthouse once. Anna walked towards it. It was open on a page with a large pressed flower, lilac petals and a green stalk. Written beneath it was one word: Alex.
Anna frowned. She reached down, placing her finger on the petal.
Then she snatched her hand back.
It was hard, rough.
She crouched down and peered closer.
The petals didn’t look like normal petals. They were wrinkly in places.
The image of a bloody shape cutter came to her mind. She saw the photo of Ben Miller’s body when she’d found him, five perfect circles removed from his torso.
She counted the petals on the flower.
Five.
She reeled back, feeling nauseated.
Skin. The petals were made from skin.
Anna went to the next page. Another flower, the name Sam at the bottom. A few more pages. Ben.
Every single hair on her body seemed to stand on end. Who did the sick scrapbook belong to: her mother? Maybe Florence found the scrapbook in her daughter’s belongings and there had been a confrontation.
Anna grabbed her car keys, then flung her raincoat and shoes on, running outside into the storm, wind flattening her jeans against her legs and making her hair fly out behind her.
She jumped into her car and headed to the bungalow.
When she got there, there were blue lights illuminating the sky, several police cars lining the street. She stopped the car then noticed her mother’s car was on the drive.
She jumped out into the rain and ran down the path.
‘Anna!’ a voice said. She turned to see Detective Morgan. ‘We must stop meeting like this.’
‘Is my daughter in there?’ she asked, trying to peer around him into the dark windows.
‘I’m afraid not, Anna.’ He tilted his head, rain splashing onto his red cheeks. ‘Maybe you know where she is? Maybe you and your mother are in this together?’
‘Of course not! Where has she taken her?’
‘We’re getting the whole area searched, she would have gone on foot from here so can’t have gone far.’ An officer called the detective away. Anna paced up and down the path as the detective spoke to his colleague.
Where had her mother taken Joni?
‘Think, think,’ she hissed to herself, peering out towards the sea, the lighthouse shining tall and white under the moonlight.
She paused.
Hadn’t Detective Morgan said they’d found items at the lighthouse? Her mother had all her art stuff there…maybe she created her scrapbooks there?
Her stomach turned.
She looked around her. All of Ridgmont Waters’ police force was here, the lighthouse left quiet and empty.
As Detective Morgan was distracted, she took the chance to slip away into the night, running through the unlit streets of Ridgmont Waters until she finally got to the beach.
She ran across the pebbles to the lighthouse, memories of the day she’d discovered her father’s body jagged as they pierced her mind. The moon stood in a crescent above, its spiky ends pinpoints in the dark as the sea worked itself into a frenzy beside her, screeching in her ears as rain hammered down.
When she got to the lighthouse, it loomed threateningly above her. Anna noticed one of its windows was open. She wouldn’t have left it open!
A cry echoed out, carried on the wind from the open window.
Joni’s cry!
Anna ran to the lighthouse’s door, yanking it open. It swung back against the wind. She scrambled up the metal stairs towards her daughter’s cries, passing her mother’s art room on the way. She glanced at the scrapbooks lining the wall.
Could it really have been her all this time?
Another cry from the lantern room.
Anna ran to the next room, the small hallway, then she paused, peering up the staircase leading to the lantern room. The door was ajar. Through the gap, Anna saw her mother walking back and forth with Joni in her arms, her hair erratic, her face drawn.
