Page 11 of Maybe Tomorrow

‘I don’t know.’

‘She wouldn’t go into woods on her own.’

‘I don’t know what to tell you. I really am so sorry.’

‘She can’t be dead, Geoff, she can’t,’ Judith cried. ‘Please, don’t let it be her.’

Freya watched as Geoff comforted his wife. They were both crying. There was nothing more she could do here, and she felt as if she was intruding on their grief. She stepped out of the kitchen and went into the living room. Once she was alone, she released the grip on her emotions and allowed the tears to fall.

A five-minute walk away on Crescent Avenue, Anthony Winstanley was late getting up for work. Downstairs, in the kitchen of the mid-terraced house, Pauline was preparing the table for breakfast. The white bowls and plates were set for two. A mug for Anthony and a cup and saucer for herself. Pauline didn’t believe in starting the day with anything cooked and fatty. The oats and milk were in the saucepan waiting for when she heard Anthony start moving around upstairs, then she’d set about making him a large bowl of porridge. Pauline would have her usual breakfast of two slices of brown toast followed by a piece of fruit from the bowl on the side.

She looked at her watch. It was ten past eight and there was still no sound from upstairs. She flicked on the kettle and headed out of the room. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and angled her head for a better listen, not that she needed to strain her hearing, Anthony wasn’t the quietest of people.

She went upstairs and knocked on his closed door. There was no sound from within. She knocked again, louder.

‘Anthony, are you awake? It’s almost quarter past eight.’

She knocked again.

‘Mum, don’t. I’ve got a banging headache,’ Anthony answered from inside.

‘Are you getting up?’

‘I don’t feel very well. I’ve been awake since four. I keep shivering but I’m sweating.’

Pauline rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not surprised if you’re going to go out walking in a storm. It sounds like you’ve got a fever. Do you want me to call Dr Pratt?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to work this morning or not?’

‘I don’t think I can, Mum.’

‘Shall I call Mrs Wilkinson and tell her you won’t be coming in?’

‘Yes please,’ he croaked.

‘You’ll need to make it up to her, Anthony. This isn’t on.’

‘I know. I will.’

‘Don’t forget to take your tablet.’

‘I won’t.’

Pauline shook her head and went downstairs. Anthony catching a cold from walking in all that rain last night reminded Pauline of the washing in the machine. She’d set it and gone straight to bed. Before she rang Mrs Wilkinson, she went into the kitchen, pulled open the washer door and took out the clothes. Hopefully, if the weather held, she’d be able to hang them out. She looked at the trousers and held them up to the light. The scuff-marks of mud had come away from the bum, but there was still that red stain around the pocket. She put them back in the washer, slammed the door closed and selected a boil wash.

ChapterFive

The storm had caused havoc and destruction across the whole region. In the early hours of the morning, it had blown out to sea leaving behind damage to property and land with repairs costs running into tens of millions of pounds. It had also cost the lives of four people. An elderly couple were driving home to Scarborough from seeing their daughter in Ipswich when a falling tree caused them to swerve. They ran off the road, down an embankment and overturned. It was another six hours before they were discovered by road workers clearing the debris. A young man in his twenties was taking photographs from the seafront in Skegness when he was swept away. His body was washed up twenty-five miles further south.

The fourth victim of the storm, Alice Patterson, was lying on a gurney in the mortuary waiting for the pathologist, Paul Nash, to begin his work. He stuck two Polo mints in his mouth and smeared his upper lip with Vicks vapour rub. He was feeling slightly delicate this morning after having one too many drinks the night before and the last thing he needed was to smell partly digested stomach contents. There was a tap on his door.

‘Are you ready for me?’

‘Not quite. I think you should come and have a look.’

‘What at?’