Sorry for your loss.” Her stomach tightened. She tossed the flowers on her hall table and stared at the card.
The night before —after the call—she’d dressed warmly and headed outdoors into a moonlit night, mainly trying to figure the direction Annie might have gone if she had left the beach on her own. She walked to the cliff overlooking the bay. The moonlight sparkled dimly upon the waves. Silver-lined storm clouds were amassing where horizon met sea. She had paused long enough to listen to the surf before heading home again.
“Here we are, luv.” Sally brought Ruth ’s tea in the duck mug. “The police are on their way.”
Ruth smiled her thanks. Dearest Sally. The funny mug had given Annie a laugh. Sally knew things like that. When the tea is drained, sip by sip, the duck figurine is revealed. The words on the outside of the mug read, “Who’s at the bottom of the well?”
A child ’s mug.
The phone rang. Ruth set the mug down and jumped up to answer it.
“Hello!” She listened. Nothing. “Hello?” She heard breathing. “Hello?” No response, just the sound of someone breathing, listening to her.
“Annie?” she said, unable to stop the desperate keen of her tone.
The caller hung up.
Shaken, Ruth stared at the phone in her hand. That was the second time she had answered the phone and known someone was listening to her frantic questions. The day before, she had let it pass as a mistake. Now she knew it had been no mistake. She shivered. Things were getting more horrible by the minute.
7
E ven with the rain, more visitors dropped by. Sally deflected some of them so that Ruth did not have to face them all.
The postmistress, a large-boned, rough-faced busybody with a strong West Country accent, stopped by. “Andrew tol’ me the child was missin’.”
She gave Ruth the creeps. Something about her wasn ’t right, but it occurred to Ruth that today it wouldn’t be so bad if the postmistress passed the news of Annie on to everyone who dropped in to post a letter or buy stamps, as long as she didn’t embellish as usual.
She told the postmistress there was no news and thanked her for dropping by.
She sat at her computer staring at the email.
“Mrs. Butler?”
She jumped to her feet and turned to see the wolf-eyed officer from yesterday enter with a woman police officer trailing behind.
Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe ’s salt and pepper hair had an untamed massiveness to it, as if it had absorbed half again its own volume with the rain. “Did you ring the station? Have you heard anything? Has she returned?”
“No.” Ruth gulped back a sob. She fell to her seat.
“We didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Last night there was a phone call. He used Annie ’s mobile. He told me to tell him I loved him. Then this morning I opened my email. Look!”
DCI Trewe bent over Ruth ’s computer. “Is this it?”
“It ’s a repeat of what he said last night.”
“I ’m going to forward this to a safe computer where it can be opened and examined. We’ll find out who sent it. There are ways. We can’t just go marching to the ISP demanding names without justification according to the Data Protection Act. If it’s important to finding your daughter, we’ll do it. I’ll let you know. We will triangulate the mobile call from last night.”
“Another call came in on the home phone this morning. I could hear him breathing.”
“How do you know it was a him?”
Ruth looked down. “An impression.”
“I regret some people take advantage of this kind of situation. Do you know of anyone who would do that to you?”
“I don ’t.”
“Will you let us know about any of these types of communications?”
“It was the second one of those.”
Trewe caught her glance as he handed her another of his cards. “You ’ve been remarkably calm through this.”
“I don ’t know what you mean.”
“I don ’t mean anything is wrong. Just an observation.” He turned and
The night before —after the call—she’d dressed warmly and headed outdoors into a moonlit night, mainly trying to figure the direction Annie might have gone if she had left the beach on her own. She walked to the cliff overlooking the bay. The moonlight sparkled dimly upon the waves. Silver-lined storm clouds were amassing where horizon met sea. She had paused long enough to listen to the surf before heading home again.
“Here we are, luv.” Sally brought Ruth ’s tea in the duck mug. “The police are on their way.”
Ruth smiled her thanks. Dearest Sally. The funny mug had given Annie a laugh. Sally knew things like that. When the tea is drained, sip by sip, the duck figurine is revealed. The words on the outside of the mug read, “Who’s at the bottom of the well?”
A child ’s mug.
The phone rang. Ruth set the mug down and jumped up to answer it.
“Hello!” She listened. Nothing. “Hello?” She heard breathing. “Hello?” No response, just the sound of someone breathing, listening to her.
“Annie?” she said, unable to stop the desperate keen of her tone.
The caller hung up.
Shaken, Ruth stared at the phone in her hand. That was the second time she had answered the phone and known someone was listening to her frantic questions. The day before, she had let it pass as a mistake. Now she knew it had been no mistake. She shivered. Things were getting more horrible by the minute.
7
E ven with the rain, more visitors dropped by. Sally deflected some of them so that Ruth did not have to face them all.
The postmistress, a large-boned, rough-faced busybody with a strong West Country accent, stopped by. “Andrew tol’ me the child was missin’.”
She gave Ruth the creeps. Something about her wasn ’t right, but it occurred to Ruth that today it wouldn’t be so bad if the postmistress passed the news of Annie on to everyone who dropped in to post a letter or buy stamps, as long as she didn’t embellish as usual.
She told the postmistress there was no news and thanked her for dropping by.
She sat at her computer staring at the email.
“Mrs. Butler?”
She jumped to her feet and turned to see the wolf-eyed officer from yesterday enter with a woman police officer trailing behind.
Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe ’s salt and pepper hair had an untamed massiveness to it, as if it had absorbed half again its own volume with the rain. “Did you ring the station? Have you heard anything? Has she returned?”
“No.” Ruth gulped back a sob. She fell to her seat.
“We didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Last night there was a phone call. He used Annie ’s mobile. He told me to tell him I loved him. Then this morning I opened my email. Look!”
DCI Trewe bent over Ruth ’s computer. “Is this it?”
“It ’s a repeat of what he said last night.”
“I ’m going to forward this to a safe computer where it can be opened and examined. We’ll find out who sent it. There are ways. We can’t just go marching to the ISP demanding names without justification according to the Data Protection Act. If it’s important to finding your daughter, we’ll do it. I’ll let you know. We will triangulate the mobile call from last night.”
“Another call came in on the home phone this morning. I could hear him breathing.”
“How do you know it was a him?”
Ruth looked down. “An impression.”
“I regret some people take advantage of this kind of situation. Do you know of anyone who would do that to you?”
“I don ’t.”
“Will you let us know about any of these types of communications?”
“It was the second one of those.”
Trewe caught her glance as he handed her another of his cards. “You ’ve been remarkably calm through this.”
“I don ’t know what you mean.”
“I don ’t mean anything is wrong. Just an observation.” He turned and
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