Discarded by M. Hunter (fantasy books to read .txt) 📗

St Francis, Pendark, and Chesney / Cormack – it’s all related somehow, but I’ve never felt so out of my depth. There’s only one person who will understand the significance of what I’m holding, but as I unlock my phone, I see Jack is already calling me.

Moving to the bay window, turning my back on Rick, I press the phone to my ear. ‘Jack, you’re never going to believe—’

‘Emma, there’s something I need to tell you,’ he interrupts. ‘The remains in the suitcase aren’t Anna’s.’

It’s nearly four o’clock by the time we see Jack’s car drive past the bay window of the vicarage and park up. He is in a state of confusion as he rings the bell and is shown through to the front room. As soon as he sees me standing by the window, he crosses the room and pulls me into a platonic hug, squeezing just tightly enough to take my weight should my knees fail again.

‘I’m so sorry I didn’t phone sooner,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘I only found out this morning, but we had to try and tell the victim’s family before I could confirm to you, and it took longer than expected to find a next of kin.’

He smells like strawberries and cream, but I can’t tell if that’s because he’s been eating sweets on the drive down or if he’s been using his daughter’s shampoo. I don’t care either way; I’m just glad to have someone here who understands the pain coursing through my veins right now.

‘Are you going to be okay?’ he whispers next, and I find myself nodding, as if his strength is pulling me back out of the hole.

‘I will be,’ my muffled whispers say, with my head buried in his shoulder.

‘Do you want me to take you home?’

Usually there’s no place I’d rather be than home, but the thought of the silence of my flat leaving me to wallow doesn’t appeal. I need distraction, rather than self-pity. They may not be my sister’s remains, but they still belong to someone, and I am duty-bound to help that victim’s family understand how she ended up in a suitcase, discarded for all time.

‘Who was she?’ I ask, breaking from Jack’s grasp and perching against the window frame.

Jack is about to respond when he suddenly notices Rick sitting in the tall armchair, and his face tightens with concern.

‘Um, this is Rick,’ I say quickly, ‘he’s a Community Support Officer from Weymouth who drove me up here. Rick, this is PC Jack Serrovitz, who, of course, you’ll recognise from my books.

Rick stands and strides across the room, thrusting out an arm and shaking Jack’s hand firmly. ‘Good to meet you, Jack.’

Rick is a good six-to-eight inches taller than Jack, who has to crane his neck to meet his gaze. ‘And you. How do the two of you know each other?’

Rick’s brow furrows and he looks to me for confirmation, but I don’t know where to begin explaining why he is here with me.

‘Um, well, I’m…’ he begins, breaking off while searching for the right noun to describe our relationship.

‘Rick has been helping me with a new investigation,’ I say, choosing not to share details of the Tina Neville debacle. ‘That’s what brought us to Hayling Island today. Rick very kindly drove us here.’

They’re still shaking hands, sizing up one another.

‘You were about to tell us whose remains were in the suitcase,’ I try. ‘Jack? The remains?’ I press.

They both release their grips and Jack turns back to me, still giving Rick an uneasy look.

‘I suppose it will be in the newspapers by morning anyway… The remains belong to a missing girl who disappeared from Oldham in 1998.’

It’s like a sucker punch to the gut, and I have to grip the window ledge tighter as the wind is knocked from me. ‘Faye McKenna,’ I gasp.

Jack starts. ‘How the hell did you guess that?’

I stagger towards the sofa where my satchel sits open. Reaching for my phone, I unlock the screen and load up the image Maddie emailed to me on Saturday, handing it to Jack.

‘Yes, that’s her,’ he says, ‘at least it looks like her. Where did you get this from?’

I take a deep breath, before telling Jack about the photographs sent to me via Maddie’s office; how they led us here to Hayling Island; and how we now believe that Cormack/Chesney is buried in the cemetery beyond the bay window.

‘Holy shit!’ Jack exclaims under his breath, quickly blushing apologetically. ‘Do you know who’s sending you these photographs?’

I shrug. ‘I assumed at first a family member, but then I spoke to a DC Caroline Knox with Greater Manchester Police this morning and she said Faye’s mum passed a couple of years ago, and she didn’t have any brothers or sisters.’

Jack is nodding along. ‘She told me the same thing a couple of hours ago. Funny thing is, she said I was the second person to be asking questions about Faye, but wouldn’t reveal who else she’d spoken to. I was guessing that was you. Unbelievable – we’ve been looking at the same problem from different ends.’

‘Faye’s picture arrived at the office on Friday, and Cormack’s this morning. They have to be connected, but I just don’t know how.’ The image of Reverend Peter Saltzing flashes before my eyes, and has me reaching for the cutting in the box, which I pass to Jack. ‘And to top it off, the vicar who used to live here had dealings with the St Francis Home. See here? We know that Turgood and the Home have connections to the Pendark Film Studios, so it’s not a huge leap to suppose that Saltzing did too. What if…?’ But I stop myself, because my next thought is too ridiculous to say aloud.

‘What if what?’ Jack questions.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, the blood finally returning to my face. ‘What if those associated with Pendark forced Saltzing to help them hide