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Chapter 9

Tess: June 2018

I lie in bed. Dad brings me cups of tea I don’t drink. Cassie and Max make calls I don’t answer. Dad will have told them what’s happened by now and anyway, it’s all over the news. DS Craven comes in and asks if he can have a word. I say no and Dad tells him to leave me alone.

‘You should really eat something,’ Dad says.

I’m sure he’s had nothing himself. He leaves a plate of Welsh rarebit on the side table.

I turn over and stare out of the window; the rain trickling down my reflection in its pane provides the tears I’m unable to cry.

The only reason I moved to London was because I thought I’d find Edie. She’d dreamed of living in the city and it didn’t matter how many millions of people lived there, I knew one day I’d bump into her on Oxford Street or at Waterloo Station.

But she was never there. The whole time she was lying at the bottom of a reservoir, wrapped in plastic and weighted down. She would still be there now if the police hadn’t dragged it after a tip-off about a drugs stash, but there were no drugs, just the body of a young girl, another one. We’ve had many messages from the police over the years. An unidentified young female, you may need to prepare. And then you hate yourself for being relieved at another girl’s death. Anyone’s as long as it isn’t Edie’s. And now it is.

Anger rushes through me. How could this happen? How can Edie be dead? I find the energy to get up and go to her room. There have to be answers somewhere, she must have left me something. Where’s the photograph, where are the missing pages from the scrapbook? I start with the tallboy. I find a couple of old Record Collector magazines and an NME from 1998 with Blur on the cover. I turn every page, to see if anything’s cut out or ringed. Nothing. Her make-up bag’s still here. A Rimmel eyeliner pencil and mascara in black, cherry-red Boots Seventeen lipstick, dried and cracked. I leap on a scrap of paper crunched up in the corner. It’s covered in silver powder from a long since disintegrated eyeshadow. I press it flat against the wall and hold it to the light. I can just about make out a till receipt from Topshop dated April 1998. I screw it up and throw it back then pull the drawer out completely, turn it over and shake its contents on the floor to make sure I’ve not missed anything.

I start pulling out the other drawers, rifling through them, spreading old birthday cards, mismatching earrings and desiccated cough sweets across the carpet. Nothing.

I go to the wardrobe. Her faux suede jacket is still hanging there and her dress with the fitted body and full skirt, that was unfashionable back then but everyone wanted when they saw it on Edie. I go through the coat pockets and a couple of bags: more receipts and a few bus tickets. Flinging the clothes on the floor, I then run my hands in the corners to make sure I haven’t missed anything. It’s empty.

I start pulling books from the shelves. She could have hidden the missing pages from the ‘Cakemaker’ scrapbook in their leaves. I flip through the pages then hold their spines and shake each one out. A couple have magazine clippings slipped inside, mostly about bands, but no loose pages from the scrapbook. I try her school exercise books. A little hope. A phone number and address I don’t recognise. No names, though. I take a photo with my phone anyway.

The last things left are her records. I don’t touch them. Edie wouldn’t have written anything on those or stuffed something inside the sleeves. They were too important to her.

I sit down in the pile of clothes, books and junk in the centre of the room. Is this all that’s left of Edie? This and the necklace I’m not allowed to have because it’s evidence. I pull my knees to my chest, lay my head on them and start to cry. I can’t believe she’s gone. Every last thread of hope has been pulled from me. DS Craven told us the DNA and dental records are a match. This is all there is, a pile of clothes and some junk.

‘Here you are.’

The door opens and Auntie Becca comes in.

‘I was worried when you weren’t in your own room.’

She kneels down next to me and I raise my head; her eyes, too, are puffy from crying. She takes my head in her hands.

‘At least you know now. You won’t have to keep wondering forever.’

‘I don’t want to know. I always thought we’d find her. I always believed that.’

‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. When’s Max coming?’

‘He’s not.’

‘I didn’t think he’d leave your side at a time like this.’

I could not tell her, but she’ll just keep asking questions until she knows the truth. Dad hasn’t asked me about Max, which is why I know he’s already spoken to him.

I curl up tighter.

‘Has something happened?’ she asks.

‘He’s met someone else.’

I can’t be bothered with the details. Somebody else is easier to blame than my failure to meet his ultimatum, and what other conclusion can I draw from another woman’s perfume clinging to him?

‘Oh, Tess, and at a time like this.’

‘I don’t care any more,’ I say, and it’s true. What is Max to me? He’s been a support system. Well, now there’s nothing left to support. Whoever slung Edie into that reservoir may as well have thrown me in, too. Becca seems to read my thoughts.

‘Tess, your dad needs you. He’s not strong and you’re all he’s got.’ My own misery has made me oblivious to his. ‘Vince is looking sick. I don’t think he’ll get through this without you. Especially when the press turn up.’

‘Are they here?’ I ask.

‘Not yet, but they’re coming. Maybe you could come and stay at ours for a bit.’

‘They’d only follow.’

‘Parasites,’ she says. ‘Look, Tess, why don’t you have a shower and come downstairs, try and eat something, talk to Ray. He’s taking this hard; you know how close he and Edie were. And most of all, you have to pull through this for your father.’

‘I’ll try,’ I say.

‘And there’s a police officer downstairs, Tess.’ She looks at me nervously. ‘I came straight up and didn’t speak to him. What’s he doing in the house?’

‘He’s the family liaison officer.’

‘I think you should get rid of him.’

‘He’s alright, Becca, he’s trying to help.’

She shakes her head.

‘You weren’t here, Tess, you’ve no idea how bad it got. The way the police treated Vince, the way they questioned him, as if he’d ever hurt Edie. You need to go downstairs and support him. Don’t let that liaison officer trick you into saying anything about Vince or Ray. The police are not our friends, Tess.’

*

I go through the mechanical routine of undressing and showering, and arrive downstairs bare-footed and with wet hair. DS Craven’s in the lounge sitting on the sofa next to Dad, his arms in a triangle on his thighs. Ray’s perched on the side, his chin resting on his hands. When he looks up his eyes are red. He comes over and hugs me and I rest my head on his shoulder.

‘Christ, I’m glad Gina didn’t have to go through this,’ he says.

Mum. Throughout all of this we’ve not mentioned her once. And my short-lived resolve at being strong for Dad crumbles. My legs go limp and I fall into Ray. He supports me and pulls me into the armchair. I want Mum, I want her to take me in her arms and tell me everything’s going to be OK, like she did when I was a little girl.

Ray kneels next to me.

‘You’re so much like her, Tess,’ he says.

Have I become like Mum? I try to picture her face compared to mine. Then I get it mixed up with Edie’s and become confused.

She and Edie were so alike, not just in looks, but they were also both animated and excitable. With no effort, people were drawn to them and wanted to be friends. Often, I’d arrive somewhere with Edie and people would say to her, ‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ when they’d met both of us before; only Edie was remembered. And she’s never coming back.

Craven’s hovering in the background. Ray sees him looking at Becca.

‘This is my wife, Rebecca,’ he says. There’s barely disguised animosity in his voice. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Craven.’

‘Tony,’ Craven says. ‘I’m the family liaison officer.’

He offers Becca his hand. She gives it a cursory shake and purses her lips in substitution for a smile.

‘When can we have Edie back? We want the funeral to be as soon as possible,’ she says.

Craven’s on edge. Dad’s made it clear he doesn’t want him here and his manner is exaggeratedly calm, as if permanently fending off an overwhelming panic; he’s new to the job, I think.

‘The coroner will release the body once a second post-mortem has been carried out. It’s just a formality, so in about a week.’

‘Do they have an exact cause of death?’ Becca asks.

I ball my fists tight to brace against the answer.

‘The pathologist noted she’d received a blow to the head,’ Craven says. ‘Significant enough to render her unconscious, though she doubted it would have been fatal.’

‘So she drowned.’

‘We can’t be certain.’

‘You’re telling me they don’t know?’ Becca says.

‘The pathologist couldn’t give a definitive cause of death. I’m afraid it’s not uncommon in cases where the victim isn’t found for many years. I know you want answers and we’re going to do everything in our power to get them. We’ll be re-interviewing everyone and put out a fresh appeal for witnesses.’

‘After twenty years?’

‘You’d be amazed what people do remember. We can combine the appeal with a press conference and of course there’ll probably be a reconstruction.’

‘No chance,’ Dad says.

‘We’ve asked journalists to stay away from the house,’ Craven says. ‘But they’re only agreeing to a twenty-four hour period to let the family grieve. After that…’ He gives a slight shrug. ‘It would be easier if you just arranged to speak to them. We can discuss the appeal another time perhaps.’

Dad glares at Craven.

‘We’ll also be looking at any similar cases,’ Craven says.

‘Similar cases? Are you talking about a serial killer?’ Ray says.

My mind scurries away down dark tunnels. I look at Dad.

‘Please no,’ I say.

‘It’s just a possibility,’ Craven says quickly. ‘There’s no evidence of a sexual assault. She was fully clothed. Though, again, we can’t be certain.’

Ray brings his hands to his face.

‘Do you think someone held her, before they…’ I can’t say the words.

‘We believe Edie was killed soon after she went missing. The original investigation surmised this when they found her bag in the canal. And there’s an additional indication of this being the case from the post-mortem.’

Ray takes a sharp breath.

‘What indication?’ he asks.

‘The indentation to the skull contained tiny fragments of rust. It’s consistent with the composition of metal on the bridge crossing the canal. Unfortunately, the ironwork along the bridge wasn’t checked for blood at the time. Edie’s injury indicates she was attacked from behind and her head hit the metal struts.’

Becca flinches. Dad doesn’t move and remains staring at his hand. Ray looks from one to the other then to me.

‘Tess,’ he says. ‘Oh God, Tess. How could this happen?’

I can see it as a film running through my head, Edie bouncing along the path unconcerned, enjoying the June day, the shade by the canal, the dragonflies drifting through shards of light shooting between tree branches. Then it’s all gone. Just cold and endless darkness.

‘What happened to the photograph? Was it with her?’ I ask.

‘Which photograph?’ Craven asks.

Ray glances at Dad. They never believed my theory and it turns out they were right.

‘Edie always carried a photograph with her, of us as a family. It was missing when they found her bag.’

‘I remember now. It was in the notes but…’ Craven looks embarrassed. ‘Detectives at the time weren’t sure of its existence.’

‘They thought I’d made it up?’ I say.

‘No, it’s just you couldn’t say when you’d last seen her with it.’

‘She always took it with her,’ I say.

‘It wasn’t with her, Tess,’ he says. ‘And who else would have wanted it, or have known it was there? The new evidence only confirms the conclusions of the original investigation. That she was killed along the canal. We haven’t advanced much beyond that right now. Hopefully, a fresh appeal will bring new witnesses forward.’

*

When Becca and Ray leave, I return to the bathroom and stare into the mirror. Do I look like Mum? I lean in close. My hair’s started to dry, half is stuck to my face and half is sticking out. My eyes are red, but there is a resemblance. Not the pretty heart-shaped face and high cheekbones of the Swift girls, which she shared with Edie, just a light sketch of her features on my long, oval Piper face. Is that what Ray meant? Or was he just seeing what he wanted to see? Because it should have been the tall, beautiful twin standing here, not me, the small, plain one.

Passing Edie’s room on the way back to mine, I realise I’ve left the clothes, books and general junk in piles on the floor. Dad mustn’t find it like this. I start replacing the clothes on their hangers in the wardrobe and returning the books to the shelves. I pick up ‘The Case of the Missing Cakemaker’ scrapbook again. The cover’s torn where I threw other books on top of it; I try to tuck the hanging strip back inside the pages. As I do so, I see a piece of paper’s come loose. It must have been stuck under the cover. I pull it out. It’s a cutting from a newspaper dated from March 1994:

Sentencing in Gina Piper Death

Judge Lavinia Darlington sentenced Nathan Bexley to a two-year jail sentence, suspended for twelve months following his conviction for death by dangerous driving earlier in the week. Bexley was found to have blood alcohol levels two and a half times above the legal limit and was travelling at excessive speed when his HGV hit the thirty-year-old mother of two, whilst she was crossing the eastbound carriageway of the Hagley Road on 15 December last year.

Judge Darlington added that Mr Bexley’s lack of remorse and attempts to shift the blame on to Mrs Piper had caused her family additional distress. However, in mitigation, she did note that Mrs Piper’s actions could be considered reckless and this was taken into account when handing down a suspended sentence.

The article doesn’t tell me anything I don’t know. And I’m not sure why Edie took the trouble to hide it, until I see her bold, swirling handwriting in faded blue biro on the white border, a single word: Suicide.