Her Last Tomorrow Read online

  I feel my heart leap in my chest as this hits me. What if that was the intention the whole time? What if they never let Ellie go? What if this whole plan was to have Tasha killed and then ensure they could never be found by keeping hold of Ellie – or worse? If they’re the sort of person who can kidnap a young girl and demand a husband murder his wife, what’s to say they won’t kill Ellie, too?

  I’m jolted out of my thought process by Tasha arriving home. She tells me she’s going to shower, change and head out to Emma’s. The whole day has disappeared in a blur, and all of a sudden I realise this is about to happen. It’s actually going ahead. Within minutes, Tasha will come downstairs and head out the door and it’ll be the last time I ever see her until I have to identify her body on a mortuary slab.

  I pace the room, alternating between blind panic and trying to assure myself that I’ve made a decision and I need to stick to it. Last-minute nerves are understandable.

  The time goes quickly and Tasha comes into the living room to say goodbye. I try to act normally, push it all to the back of my mind. Out of sight, out of mind. When I hear the latch on the front door click and her heels clip-clopping down the driveway, I panic.

  I run into the kitchen and pick up the phone. I know it’s not wise to use my own phone, but right now I don’t care. It’s got to be done. I dial the number, my hands shaking as I try not to press the wrong buttons. After what seems like an age, it rings.

  ‘Yeah?’ comes the answer, eventually.

  ‘Geoff? There’s been a change of plan,’ I say. ‘Can you—’

  He cuts me off before I can say anything. ‘I told you not to call. It’s too risky,’ he says.

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘No buts,’ he replies, interrupting me again. Before I can say another word, he’s disconnected the call. I swear and call back. It goes straight through to answerphone. I try again, twice, three times, four times. He’s switched his phone off.

  I run upstairs and grab a pair of shoes, cramming my feet into them and rushing to tie up the shoelaces. It takes twice as long as it usually does, my hands shaking and fingers not doing what I want them to. I take the stairs two at a time and head out the front door, slamming it behind me. I have to stop this. Now.

  When I get to the end of my drive, I see Derek putting the rubbish out in his bin. He stops at the same time I do and we look at each other. After a few seconds I glance off down the road in the direction of Jubilee Park. I can’t see Tasha.

  I look back at Derek. He’s still looking at me. In a rare moment of clarity, I realise I have to stay. This is my alibi.

  46

  Tasha

  A huge part of me feels guilty about tonight. I mean, who the hell goes round to their friend’s house for drinks when their five-year-old daughter is missing? But then I remember that Nick’s right. There’s nothing we can do at this stage other than sit at home and allow ourselves to get sucked into worrying about the worst that could have happened. What good would that do us?

  We can’t do anything. The police are doing the best they can, and although I’ve got to admit I’m getting really frustrated at how slowly it all seems to be moving, even they’ve advised us to try and maintain as much normality as we can. The problem is, I can’t remember what normality really is. Everything before is a blur: days at work, holidays, trips to the park. All jumbled into one. I would say it’s the medication doing it, but I know it isn’t. I know it’s the trauma. It’s what happens when you go through something like this. Everything becomes either Before or After.

  I’m putting on a brave face, I know, but I’m doing it for both of us. I’m doing it because right now Nick is all I have. And that worries me. I know he’s not coping. I don’t blame him. Who could? But Nick starts to act strangely when he’s struggling. He’s never been one to cope well with difficult situations, but his behaviour’s been worrying me more and more.

  I don’t know if it’s just that I’m looking too far into things, but before (there’s that word again), I doubt whether I would’ve had Nick down as someone who’d encourage me to go round to Emma’s for a bottle of wine while our daughter is missing. He resented me going back to work after she was born, so it seems highly unlikely.

  Regardless, I think we could do with a few hours apart. We’ve started to get under each other’s feet even more than usual, and things have almost blown up a couple of times. Deep down, I can’t help but feel as though I need to blame him for what’s happened to Ellie. What if he hadn’t gone back in the house that morning? What if he’d actually got himself organised for once in his life and had taken Ellie to school at the time he was meant to? What if he’d just manned up and told Ellie she’d have to take the picture of Miss Williams in another day? And then I begin to turn it on myself. What if I hadn’t had to go to this conference? What if I’d gone in later and actually stepped up to the plate as a mother and got Ellie ready for school myself? The whole thing’s full of what ifs, and it’s not doing us any good.

  I’m not trying to distract myself from what’s happening, but I am trying to stop myself from going over old ground and slowly killing myself with resentment and regret. I know in my heart of hearts that Ellie will be brought back to us. Call it hope. Call it desperation. But every fibre of my being holds on for that moment Ellie comes home. And when she does, I want her to be back home the way things were, not in a house full of bad feelings and negative atmosphere.

  And then I feel guilty for feeling like that. As if I’m almost duty-bound to be pacing around the house and pulling my hair out, as if I’m a bad mother for not screaming in hysterics on the floor. Does Nick think that of me? And what of the police? I’m presuming they’ve already checked CCTV at the train station. Part of me hopes they have so that they can see I was nowhere near the house when Ellie went missing, and another part of me hopes they haven’t as that would mean they’ve actually suspected me of kidnapping my own daughter.

  There’s one unshakeable contradiction that I don’t want to face, but which keeps rearing its ugly head: I’m convinced Ellie is safe and will return home, but at the same time I can’t think of anyone who’d specifically want to take her. If that’s the case, it only leaves the possibility of an opportunistic kidnapper. And why would an opportunistic kidnapper want to keep her perfectly safe and looked after if they just wanted—

  I scrub the thought from my mind. I can’t let myself think like that. I’ve got the same desperate worries and sickening thoughts any mother would have, but I’m also fighting tooth and nail to push them to the back of my mind and maintain as much hope and optimism as I can. But even that’s fading quickly.

  The medication’s taking the edge off of things, but that’s not saying much. Without it, I’d be unable to even function. And again I feel guilty for even being able to function. What it has done is slow these thoughts down and allowed me to process them. It’s held me back from the edge.

  It’s a feeling of numbness that takes over as I start to walk through Jubilee Park. As the glow of the streetlights fades behind me, I feel solace and familiarity in the darkness of the park. The blackness of the night and the silence around me feels just like the enormous buffer of reality I’m feeling every day. Seeing people going to work, getting on with their daily lives, probably completely unaware of what’s happened. Unaware that the world’s stopped turning. I feel like I’m in a bubble, completely removed from reality. Like the park, a black mass surrounded by a dim glow of streetlights, growing ever dimmer.

  I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of a single footstep crunching on dead leaves and twigs. Before I can turn my head to look, I sense it filling with pain and the lights flash in front of my eyes, drowning out the orange glow of the streetlights that twist and turn as my cheek hits the tarmac.

  47

  Nick

  Sitting around waiting for news is horrible. I know, because it’s what I’ve spent the past few days doing. Sitting around waiting for bad news is worse, pa
rticularly when you know what the news is going to be. I’m just waiting for the call to tell me that Tasha is dead.

  It feels weirdly peaceful, tranquil. As if the whole sorry saga is almost over and I’ll be reunited with my Ellie. How will Ellie’s kidnapper know the deed has been done in order to return her? Do I need to email Jen Hood? That’s not something I want to risk. I don’t want to incriminate myself any further.

  Whoever it is, they didn’t have much difficulty in coming very close to us on two separate occasions – when Ellie was taken and when I received the message about the police officer outside the house – so they probably won’t have too much trouble doing so again. It’s pretty likely that Tasha’s death will hit the news, particularly after the media attention we’ve had over the past week or so. And then what? They’ll just plonk Ellie back down on the drive and that will be that? It sounds doubtful, but it’s all I’ve got to hope for.

  Eventually, after what seems like an interminable amount of time, the phone rings. I dash to answer it before stopping myself. I look at the clock. It’s 9.30 p.m. Who answers the phone on its first ring at 9.30 p.m.? I give it a few seconds before picking up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nick? It’s Emma.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I reply, trying to sound relaxed. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I was just wondering if Tasha’s left yours yet,’ she says, the worry now clear in her voice. ‘Only she was meant to be here over an hour ago and I can’t get hold of her on her mobile.’

  ‘Really? She left here not long after eight,’ I say.

  ‘Shit. Do you think she’s alright? Was she going anywhere in between?’

  ‘I dunno,’ I say, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll try and call her and then ring you back.’

  I wait a second before calling Tasha’s phone. I know I need to phone her, because it’s one of the areas in which people often fall flat on their faces. It’s a bit of a giveaway when a husband doesn’t even bother to call his wife’s phone when he realises she’s missing.

  The phone goes through to voicemail.

  I call Emma back. As I wait for the sound of the ringing to start, all I can think about is not wanting to be the one to find Tasha’s body. The phone barely rings once before Emma answers.

  ‘Voicemail,’ I say. ‘Listen, she walks through Jubilee Park to get to yours. She probably sat down to clear her mind in the fresh air and hasn’t realised the time. I’m sure it’s fine. You walk over here and I’ll walk to yours. We should meet halfway. She can’t be far. Might be a good idea to bring Cristina or Leanne with you. One of you needs to stay at yours, though, in case she turns up there.’

  ‘They couldn’t make it,’ Emma says. ‘They had to cancel. It was just going to be me and Tash.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave now and we’ll meet halfway,’ I reply. ‘Keep your phone on you.’

  I give it a few minutes, knowing full well that Emma will leave immediately. If I wait a bit, she’ll cover more of the journey than I will and is more likely to come across Tasha’s body, meaning I won’t need to. I’m not sure I can handle it.

  After what seems like an age, but the clock on my phone tells me was barely four minutes, I put on my shoes and leave.

  I walk purposefully, but not quickly. I don’t know how well they can trace the route a person takes using mobile phone tracking, but I don’t want this to look anything other than completely natural.

  Within a few minutes, I’m at the park. My heart is thudding against my ribcage as I realise what’s about to happen. I’m about to find my wife’s dead body.

  Before I see anything, I hear a voice.

  ‘Nick!’ she yells. ‘Over here!’

  I turn in the direction of the voice and see Emma. One side of her face is lit up by the blue light of her mobile phone, which is pressed up against her ear. She’s looking down at the ground, on which all I can see is a dark heap. I know immediately what it is.

  I jog over, my whole world slowing down around me as I struggle to process what’s going on, even though I’ve expected it – planned it.

  ‘Yeah, she is,’ Emma says into the phone, the panic clear in her voice and on her face. ‘Her husband’s just arrived.’ She swings the phone upwards to move the microphone away from her mouth. ‘She’s been attacked, Nick.’

  I struggle to catch my breath. Attacked.

  I try to speak. ‘Is she . . . is she . . .’

  ‘She’s okay,’ Emma says. ‘She’s breathing. The ambulance is on its way.’

  All of a sudden, the darkness of Jubilee Park becomes a whole lot darker.

  48

  Nick

  The ambulance goes hell for leather between Jubilee Park and the hospital. A serious head wound was what the paramedic said, and it needed treating quickly. A huge loss of blood. I toy with the idea of asking them to slow down, but I don’t.

  She looks almost unrecognisable. The swelling has already started. The paramedics seem to be worried about swelling developing on her brain, so they’ve booked her in for emergency scans. Seeing your wife covered in blood and knowing that you are responsible for it is one of the hardest things in the world to see. But it’s the sickening gurgling noise she makes the whole way there which gets me the most.

  When we arrive at the hospital, the paramedics usher me out of the ambulance and a nurse takes me through into the waiting area as the paramedics wheel Tasha out on the stretcher. They disappear through a different set of doors as the nurse tries to reassure me everything will be alright and that Tasha’s in safe hands. I have no way of telling her that’s not what I want to hear.

  I’m given a paper cup of hot, sweet tea – too sweet – and told that a doctor will come to see me shortly to let me know what’s going on and to let me see my wife. Emma decides she’d rather have coffee and sets off in search of a machine.

  It’s all a blur. I’ve no idea how much time passes. It seems to fly by, yet at the same time it feels interminable. Before long, though, I recognise the familiar voice of McKenna. She’s starting to follow me around like a bad fart. I wonder how the hell she found out about this so quickly. Had they been watching? No. That wouldn’t be reasonable. I tell myself that the doctors or paramedics probably recognised Tasha or knew who she was from all the recent press attention. They’d know her name. There might even be some sort of marker on the medical records which alerted the police. I don’t know, and right now I don’t care. All I know is I’m in no state to want to speak to McKenna.

  ‘How is she?’ the DI asks as Emma rounds the corner with her paper cup of coffee.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say vaguely, surprised at how hoarse and distant my voice sounds.

  ‘Do they know what happened exactly?’ she says, looking alternately at both me and Emma.

  ‘Isn’t that your job?’ I reply, trying to add a biting venom into my tone and quickly realising it’s coming naturally.

  ‘We can’t speak to her until the doctors have seen her, Nick. I was referring more to what she was doing in the park at this time of night in the first place. Why walk that way? Hardly seems safe. Why didn’t she drive? Take a taxi? Get you to give her a lift?’

  McKenna’s eyes don’t leave mine.

  ‘The doctors say it looks as if she was targeted specifically,’ she tells me, her voice neutral. ‘She had no purse, bag or phone on her so we can only presume the attacker took them from her.’

  ‘A mugging?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s what it looks like,’ she replies, again looking as though she’s sussing me out. ‘Have you been at home all evening?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I only left when Emma called and said Tasha hadn’t turned up.’

  ‘On your own, I presume?’

  I shrug and force an odd sort of smile, as if to say Well yeah, unfortunately. I know I’m on shaky ground with what I’m about to say. I didn’t have the opportunity to set up the whole Derek-alibi plan. What with everything else going on, it slipped thr
ough my fingers. But after ransacking the man’s house and seeing the scared look on his face, I wonder if things might be different this time. After all, it’s the only option I have left. The last throw of the dice. I decide it’s worth the risk. ‘Actually, if you mean can I prove I was at home, yeah, I can. I went out to the front garden a few minutes after Tasha left. Derek was on his drive, putting out his bins.’

  ‘You want to use Derek as your alibi again?’ McKenna asks. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Wait. Alibi?’ I say, trying to sound shocked and angry. ‘You mean you think I did this?’

  ‘Not at all. What makes you think that? I just need to find out who was where and when. Establish the facts. Tell me about Derek.’

  ‘He was there,’ I say. ‘He’s the only person who saw me. Then I went back inside and nothing else happened until Emma called.’

  McKenna nods again. I can see she knows it’s unlikely I’d have left home and gone to the park to beat my wife up, especially with the media attention we’ve had and everyone in the local area knowing our faces. But she knows something’s not quite right, I can tell. She just doesn’t know what.

  We sit in a stony silence for hours, only occasionally punctuated by one of us going to get another cup of tea or coffee or making the usual remarks about hoping we’ll hear something soon. We’re given updates every hour or so. They’re increasingly positive, telling us they’ve stopped the bleeding, kept it away from her brain and that she’s conscious again. What really fucks me off is that McKenna goes to see Tasha twice in the early hours, the doctors seeming to give preference to the police over her own husband.

  Around six in the morning, the doctor appears in the doorway and tells us Tasha is stable, but has a bad concussion. She’s also lost a lot of blood. ‘She’ll be weak,’ he says.

  ‘Can I see her?’ I ask, more to McKenna than the doctor.