Page 16 of Maybe Tomorrow

Freya entered the living room. Judith looked up and attempted a smile, but it was lost behind the tears. She was sitting on the armchair, a box of tissues on her lap and a tissue screwed up in her hand.

Freya sat down on the sofa and Geoff perched next to his wife, his arm tight around her.

‘There’s something I need to tell you both,’ Freya began. She hated this. She was warm and could feel sweat prickling at her armpits. ‘As you know, Alice was found in the woods opposite Whitby Cemetery and there was a branch from a tree on her. But I’m afraid, that wasn’t what killed her. I really am sorry to tell you both this, but… Alice was murdered.’

‘What?’ Judith asked, her face a question mark.

Freya looked to Geoff. He was just as perplexed.

‘The branch that was covering Alice came from a tree further away from where she was found. It looks as if someone dragged it along the ground and covered her to make us think it was an accident.’

‘So, how did she die?’ Judith asked.

When Freya answered, she looked at Geoff. ‘We believe she was strangled.’

There was no acting from either parent. Judith let out a cry and held onto Geoff for support. He grabbed her, buried her inside his arms. Tears fell from his face. He looked genuinely distraught.

Freya waited and watched. She was caught up in the grief and had to wipe away tears of her own. She looked around the room. There were framed photos on the mantlepiece showing the family in happier times. Alice on the beach, playing in the sand, looking freezing cold in layers, but a huge smile on her face. In every photo, Alice was smiling, enjoying herself, enjoying life, and someone had stolen it from her and left her parents broken in agony.

‘I really am so sorry,’ Freya said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to make you a cup of tea or something?’

Judith didn’t respond. Geoff looked at her and shook his head.

‘I know nothing I can say will bring Alice back, but we will do everything we can to find out what happened to her. CID are launching a murder investigation and they’ll come to interview you in more depth whenever you’re ready. Also, if you ever want to talk or anything, you can call me any time. I’m here to help out as much as I can. I’ll leave you on your own for now.’

Freya stood up. She was almost at the door when Judith called her back.

‘Freya, can I ask?’ she began through the tears. ‘You said she was strangled, did they… whoever did it… did they… did they rape her?’

Freya had hoped they wouldn’t ask so she could leave it to DI Bishop and his team to go into the details, but since they’d asked, she couldn’t lie to them. They needed to know the truth.

‘They’re still doing tests, but it does look like she was sexually assaulted, yes. I’m so sorry.’

She stood and watched as the grieving couple collapsed into each other. There was nothing Freya could do. She wanted to go over to them, hug them, hold them tight and tell them everything was going to be all right, but that would be wrong. Nothing would be all right for the Pattersons ever again.

ChapterSeven

Wednesday 12th October 1983

Pauline Winstanley was always up first. Her alarm was set for six o’clock every morning, even on the days she wasn’t due at the nursing home until after lunch. She liked to make sure Anthony was up and had a good breakfast in him before he left for work. If it was up to him, he’d leave the house with his coat hanging off his shoulders, chewing a Marathon. What would the neighbours think?

She weighed the oats and put them into a saucepan followed by the full fat milk and set the gas to a low light. She put bread under the grill and spooned three heaped teaspoons of tea into a warmed pot. She then went to the bottom of the stairs to give her son a third call.

Back in the kitchen, she turned on the radio. It was coming up to seven o’clock and time for the morning news.

‘A murder inquiry has been launched in North Yorkshire following the death of a teenager during the storm that hit the region on Monday night. In a statement released yesterday evening, North East Police say the victim, eighteen-year-old Alice Patterson was killed and left in woodland close to Whitby Cemetery. Leading the investigation is…’

Pauline turned off the radio. She remained frozen to the spot, her hand on the radio, her face pale from the news. Alice Patterson was dead. Murdered. She knew her mother. She felt a wave of sickness build up inside her but swallowed it down as she heard her son thunder down the stairs like a herd of elephants.

He was whistling something tuneless and stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen.

‘Mum. The porridge,’ he said.

Pauline snapped out of her reverie. She looked at the cooker behind her to see the milk was boiling over.

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ she said. She turned the gas off, picked up the pan with a tea towel covering the handle and dropped it into the sink. She turned on the cold water tap. Steam began to rise from the ruined breakfast and ruined pan. ‘You’ll just have to have toast this morning,’ she said.

‘I don’t think so.’