Mother Love by Maureen Carter Page B

animals, people she knew couldn’t be there: dead people. She’d catch movement in the shadows; ghosts hovering overhead. These visions scared her more than the physical pain. It meant her mind was becoming frailer as well.
    Often, she’d retreat into childhood, draw comfort from memories of home. Love and laughter, warm smiles, strong arms. Back then when she woke screaming in the dark, her mother would rush in, wipe away the tears, hold her tight and shush her gently back to sleep. Traces of Joy – still her favourite perfume – would linger in the air when she left.
    Dear God, where was Elizabeth now?
    Stifling a sob, Olivia stiffened. Hairs rose on the back of her neck, adrenaline pumped. She’d heard nothing, but he had to be here. The dark beyond her eyelids had lifted slightly. Slowly opening wary eyes, she braced her body for another blow. Where was he? Was he toying with her again? Hardly daring to breathe, she scanned the room, moving only her eyes. It must be a test. He’d be hiding, waiting to pounce. Willing her to make a wrong move. Any move. She strained her ears for the slightest sound, counted sixty seconds, ninety, then tentatively lifted her head. She took a sharp intake of breath. She was alone, but a candle was lit.
    She blinked rapidly several times, half expecting it to be a hallucination. It was still there, flanked by the other two. Why were they unlit? It was a ritual. He lit them when he came in, extinguished them on leaving.
    Tears pricked her eyes.
    How dare he? How dare he change the pattern, alter the routine? What right did he have to deviate from the norm, upset her like this? Fists clenched, she wanted to stamp her feet, scream and shout. Then realized how ludicrous her reaction was.
    Recognized, as well, that with so little to cling to during the enforced confinement – the minutiae of what passed for life had taken on mammoth proportions. She was loath to let it go. Lighting a few sodding candles. She gave a brittle laugh.
    Hysterical or what? Throwing back her head, she laughed again. Oh Olivia, that’s priceless. She couldn’t wait to tell her mates. Then the flame flickered in the draught.
    And she saw it in a different light.
    Not a deviation any more. If she could just get to it, maybe it could be her salvation.

SIXTEEN
    T he conference room at police HQ resembled a film set, or a TV studio. Having always avoided the spotlight, Elizabeth Kent was aware of the irony. Dressed in a dark trouser suit, she sat at a polished mahogany table, flanked by police officers, facing a battery of lights, microphones, lenses; behind was a vast screen currently showing the force logo. Conscious her hands were clammy, she took them off the desk, clamped them between her thighs. Damp smudges remained on the wood. If she was the star turn, the audience comprised thirty or more complete strangers seated in rows waiting, she suspected, to pounce on her every word.
    Outwardly calm, she ran through the script in her head; the statement written by DI Quinn. Her edginess wasn’t down to nerves or stage fright: Elizabeth was furious – make that incandescent. She couldn’t get rid of the terrible mental image of Olivia, the thin wire round her neck, the fear in her eyes. How dare another human being do this to her daughter? She hated whoever it was. And until a few hours ago had no idea she was capable of feeling so much hatred.
    â€˜Mrs Kent, are you all right?’ DI Quinn leaned across, voice low. ‘Can I get you some water?’
    Elizabeth smiled. ‘No. I’m fine. Thank you.’ Grateful, too, that she’d been given the choice of seeing the photograph. The DI’s warning that she would find it deeply distressing hadn’t prepared her for the shock, the sickening gut-churning emotional maelstrom. But knowing the worst was infinitely preferable to being kept in the dark. Olivia didn’t have that option. Lowering her head, she