Dead & Buried

Chapter 2

2

Jack Culverhouse looked at the clock again. It was barely three minutes later than when he’d last looked, even though he’d told himself he was going to relax and stop worrying.

Emily was at that awkward age: young enough for him to worry, but old enough that he couldn’t get away with stopping her going anywhere without him.

Besides which, it would be hypocritical of him to claim he had to watch over her twenty-four-seven. He hadn’t been there while she was growing up, although he firmly believed that was no fault of his own. He couldn’t be blamed for his wife disappearing without warning and taking their daughter with her. His only guilt was in knowing he hadn’t made more of an effort to find them.

He took a deep breath, picked up his phone and called Emily’s mobile number. It rang twice, then cut off halfway through the third ring and went to voicemail. Jack wasn’t the best with technology, but even he knew that being put through to voicemail that quickly meant Emily had seen and cancelled his incoming call.

He tried to push back the anger and frustration, instead focusing his thoughts on the TV. He wasn’t paying any attention to what was going on, as much as he tried to listen to every word and ignore the thoughts running around in his mind.

Emily had form. She’d — understandably — fallen in with the wrong crowd on a couple of occasions, and last year had started seeing a local boy by the name of Ethan Turner. Jack had risked his own job in looking up Ethan on the Police National Computer, but was pleased he had. Ethan had a record, and not one that made Jack think Ethan would be the perfect boy for his daughter to be involved with.

Ever since then, he’d worried about the sort of people Emily might consider to be friends. He couldn’t blame her — he’d seen it all hundreds of times over in his years as a police officer. Young children, often with broken family backgrounds, tended to try and seek that missing bond and loyalty in a group of friends. Unfortunately, the desperate tended to gravitate towards groups with the lowest standards of entry.

Jack had never considered that he might form part of a ‘broken family’. It had so often been touted as the downfall of British society, yet now he saw how easily it could happen. All it took was one last argument, one seed of doubt to be sown in an otherwise happy marriage.

He’d never been there to protect Emily when he should have been. Those formative years in which the father plays a crucial role were now gone. He felt extremely fortunate that she hadn’t rejected him completely, and since Emily had returned to Mildenheath they’d enjoyed a positive — if tense — relationship.

It often felt as though one false step or misunderstood comment could put everything back to square one. But he couldn’t afford to look at things negatively. So far, so good.

His biggest concern had come a few months earlier when he’d noticed what looked like scars from cut marks on the inside of Emily’s arms. He’d managed to refrain from bringing it up — they looked like old scars, and he’d resolved to keep an eye on her and look out for any signs that she might be doing it again. He’d seen nothing, and saw no positive reason to draw attention to something which had hopefully been consigned to the past.

He managed to hold his attention on the documentary for a minute or so before his thoughts started to wander again. What if it wasn’t her who cancelled the call? What if the reason his texts had gone unanswered was because she didn’t have her phone, but it had been stolen by someone else. Perhaps she was with someone and didn’t want to be disturbed. Every conceivable possibility flashed through his mind — all of them except the perfectly innocent explanations, that is.

Home was supposed to be a safe sanctuary for both of them. He’d barely been home from work an hour, and already he was feeling more stressed and highly-strung than he had all day at the office.

Work was a constant battle, in more ways than one. Crime was rising in Mildenheath and the surrounding area at approximately the same rate as policing budgets were being cut. Whether the cuts had caused the rise in crime was purely academic — the more pertinent concern was that slashed budgets meant fewer resources with which to fight the soaring crime levels.

What was more worrying was that Jack’s team dealt almost exclusively with murders, rapes and serious assaults. It wasn’t just burglary and so-called petty crime that was on the rise.

He looked down at his phone. He wanted to call Emily again, but knew there was very little point. If she didn’t answer two minutes ago, she wasn’t going to answer now. He didn’t know what went through teenagers’ minds at times, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t the same when he was her age. His old mum would’ve locked him in his room for a week. That wasn’t an option with Emily. With Emily, he had to tread much more carefully.

He heard the sound of a key in the front door and slid his phone down the side of the sofa before putting his feet up on the footstool in front of him.

‘Alright?’ he said as Emily walked through the living room to the kitchen.

‘Yeah, you?’

‘Not bad. Have a good day?’

‘Same, really. Nothing special.’

Jack nodded, not taking his eyes off the TV. ‘Been anywhere nice? I tried to call you — I was going to do you some dinner.’

‘It’s alright. I’ve already eaten.’

He clenched his teeth and swallowed.

‘Might’ve been nice if you’d answered and told me that. Then I would’ve known.’

‘Didn’t seem much point,’ Emily called from the kitchen. ‘I was only at the end of the road. No point wasting my battery.’

He wanted to ask her where she’d been, who she’d been with, what she’d done, where she’d eaten. But he knew it was pointless. She’d either not tell him, lie to him or get upset that he was interfering in her life. He knew she had a right to her own privacy, but right now he was the only person looking out for her and he felt a sense of deep responsibility.

‘What was it, anyway?’ she said as she walked back into the living room and stood with her weight shifted on one hip, drinking a glass of orange juice.

‘Hmmm?’

‘Dinner.’

‘Spag bol. Thought I’d really push the boat out,’ he said, watching as she raised the glass to take another mouthful of juice, noticing the fresh cut marks on the inside of her forearm as she tugged her sleeve back down.