Page 7 of Making a Killing (DI Fawley #7)

MY SHADOW JOURNAL

How can you recognise your Shadow at work?

Every time you feel a negative emotion, or act in a way that makes you angry, guilty or ashamed, that’s a sign that your Shadow is in play. Instead of blaming yourself when you feel or behave this way (‘I’m such a horrible person’, ‘There’s something wrong with me’) learn to identify where these emotions and behaviours originate, as the first step to integrating your Shadow into a more fully present and accepted Self.

There are a number of ways you can do this, and here are four of the most important: identifying your triggers (things that prompt you to act in a specific way, often without conscious thought), listening to your dreams (we’ll cover this in more detail in a later session), being aware of your patterns (circumstances, relationships, or decisions that you find yourself repeating time after time, even when they’ve been damaging in the past), and reflecting on your childhood (issues that are still unresolved, traumas that remain with you, or memories that continue to cause distress). In today’s exercise, we’ll be looking at number four, and how understanding, loving and – if necessary – forgiving your inner child can move you towards a more fulfilled and self-compassionate life.

Today’s exercise

Find a quiet place and spend a few moments breathing deeply, with your eyes closed. In your mind, take yourself back to a formative event in your childhood. Something that you believe still affects you today. What was it? How did it impact you? How does it continue to influence your life today? Describe the event and its consequences below.

So we’re only on exercise two and the sky is already black with chickens coming home to roost. But I guess that’s the point.

So.

That summer.

Sounds like one of those vomit-inducing high school movies. ‘I Know What You Did Last Summer’ or ‘The Summer I Turned Pretty’. Only mine was ‘The Summer It Turned Shitty’. The summer it all went wrong. Not that I thought that at the time, obvs. At the time I thought I had it all worked out, I prided myself on how clever I was being. Ha ha ha. But like I keep saying, I was only eight. And I was miserable. Really, genuinely miserable. I couldn’t see any other way.

But I found a rescuer. Though if we’re doing this brutal honesty thing, I suppose that’s not true. I didn’t find one, I made one.

It took a long time, that’s the first thing I remember. I had to learn to be patient, which I’d never been good at and am still crap at it, even now. I had to take my time, coax and be coaxed. And yes, I suppose it does sound like grooming. It didn’t occur to me back then, but I guess I was just too young. But now, yes, maybe. Only in reverse, of course.

It felt like forever but it can’t have been more than that summer term. Six weeks of drip drip dripping things out. How I wasn’t happy at home, how I was ‘afraid of the dark’, and all those loaded references to monsters. I kept thinking I was overdoing it – like, how thick can a person be? – but it was the fairy story that finally did it. Even I was impressed with that. I can’t remember all the details but it was called ‘The Sad Princess’ and she was sad because she was imprisoned in a measly little hut by a wicked witch and a monster who looked like a pig. She tried to run away but the monster came to her room at night and hurt her. Then a prince came and she thought he would set her free only he was mean to her instead. She cried a lot and did not live happily ever after.

The useless prince was bloody Jamie, of course, and as for the witch and the pig, well, like, duh. And I made sure there was a whole ton of spelling mistakes in it too. Sharon checked every last scrap of homework I ever did, and I wanted her to really take her time with this one, word by fucking word. I was curious whether she’d notice, if she’d work out what it really meant. But of course she didn’t. The only thing that interested her was telling me what I’d got wrong. She always enjoyed that bit.

And it worked. All that ‘evidence’ that incriminated Sharon. We did that. Together. It was easy. All of it. We conned them all.

And then we were hiding, in that flat, for a month. 28 days to be exact. I know because they were crossed off on the calendar like a jail sentence. Which as I kept having drummed into me, would happen for real if the police ever found out. And as for me, I’d have to go home. And that was way, way worse.

But I never believed it. Not really. I didn’t think the police were clever enough. Not as clever as us anyway. Except maybe that Adam Fawley. I saw him on TV, talking about me. Which was weird. Like that physics thing about being in two places at once. Though not as weird as seeing them doing the appeal to get me back. What a shit-show. Sharon all dolled up like Barbie and poor Leo, just a rabbit in the headlights. I really thought he was going to throw up. And as for Barry, he spent the whole time fake-blubbing and doing anything he could think of not to show his face. I knew why, of course. I’d seen all those sex messages on that phone he thought no one knew about. I’d smelled the back of his car when he’d been out the night before ‘seeing a client’.

I reckon that Adam Fawley had the measure of him too. I could see the way he looked at him. That’s how I knew he was smart. Maybe a bit too smart – maybe even smart enough to get to the truth –

And then for the first time I was worried, just a bit, and asked – casual, like, whether it was that man Fawley who’d come asking questions, but no, turned out it was another man, a cocky little DS, and a woman DC who wore dull clothes. And I breathed a sigh of relief and didn’t mention it again.

And then, after all the hiding, and the terror, and the journey which could have gone wrong too only didn’t, there we were on the first night of our new lives that were going to be so happy and amazing, only it was at some grimy B very little got past her. It’s good to see Tony Asante back too. He, for one, has never lacked the inclination – or the money – to invest in his appearance: the last time I saw that tie was in the window of Ede Major Crimes really rate him. And up at the front, taking a seat next to me, Bryan Gow, whose attendance probably qualifies as a ‘Special Guest Appearance’. Ever since the follow-up Infamous series on the Camilla Rowan case, he’s been on TV every couple of months, and evidently loving every minute of it: Murdertown , Cold Case Files ; he even did a Wives with Knives , which had Alex squealing with glee. The money must be better than what we pay him, too, if that suit is anything to go by.

And last, not least, and also up here at the front, Gis. Gis. The man I chose to be godfather to Lily, and who loves her like the daughter he’s never had. There’s only one Gis.

They’re quietening down now, like an audience waiting for the curtain to go up.

Showtime.

I stand up. ‘I know I’m the last person you were probably expecting to see –’

And then the door bangs at the back and everyone turns to look.

Quinn. Of course. He never did miss an opportunity to make an entrance.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Had to take a call from the mayor.’

He’s had a lot to do in the hour or so since I last saw him, but as status-staking goes, a call from the mayor sounds a lot more impressive than grunt-tasks from me. I’m also prepared to bet it was Gis he landed with most of that. Quinn makes his way to the front, getting a muted wolf whistle from one of the old hands and a knowing look between Ev and Chloe Sargent. And it is, of course, peak Quinn.

I wait for calm to settle and have another go.

‘I didn’t know I was going to be here today, any more than you did. But something’s come up and Harrison thinks we’re the best team to handle it. It’s one of our old cases. There’s been a development.’

‘Which case?’ asks Ev.

I take a deep breath. This is where the cliché hits the road. ‘Daisy Mason.’

Ev frowns. ‘But that was, what? Seven years ago?’

‘Eight, in fact.’

I look round the room. ‘I know some of you weren’t here then, and DS Gislingham will be circulating the full file after this, but the basic facts are these. Daisy Mason was eight years old when she disappeared from her family home in July 2016. As you would expect with a missing child – and especially a missing child in North Oxford – it was an extremely high-profile case. We did an extensive investigation and uncovered enough evidence to prosecute the mother, Sharon Mason. She was convicted of murder and is still in prison.’

One of the new DCs raises a hand. ‘Am I right in thinking you never found the body?’

‘We had enough forensic evidence to make a strong inferential case, and the jury agreed with us. But you’re right, we didn’t.’

‘So what’s changed?’ says Ev. Dog with a bone, as usual. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve given thanks for that.

I look towards her. ‘Turns out there’s a good reason why we never found the body. She wasn’t dead.’

That takes a moment to register.

Ev is gaping at me now. ‘She’s alive ?’

‘Her DNA was found at a crime scene two days ago, so it would appear so, yes.’

‘But no one’s actually seen her?’ Baxter this time, ever the pragmatist.

‘No. But the investigation is still at a very early stage. You know what that’s like.’

‘You said “crime scene”.’ Ev again. ‘What exactly are we talking about?’

‘You may have seen news stories in the last day or so about the discovery of a shallow grave in Gloucestershire?’

Some blank faces, a couple of nods, including Chloe Sargent.

‘The victim was a woman in her twenties or thirties, buried face down, and her mouth forced open by a metal shelf bracket –’

‘Jesus,’ says Sargent.

Baxter is frowning. ‘But Daisy would still be a teenager –’

‘Right. But there was a hair caught in the tape used to tie the victim up. The hair is hers.’

Silence. They know that means this is recent, not some historical sample that’s managed to survive against all the odds for the best part of a decade.

‘I know it’s a lot to take in.’

Baxter folds his arms. ‘So where’s she been all this sodding time?’

‘That we don’t know. And clearly she could have changed her name, her appearance –’

‘Almost certainly, I’d have thought,’ says Asante quietly.

‘I agree,’ I say, turning to him. ‘The hair found on the tape was originally blonde, like Daisy’s, but had been dyed dark red.’

‘I still don’t believe it,’ says Ev, shaking her head. ‘There has to be some mistake.’

‘That was my first reaction too, but they’ve checked three times. The DNA is a match. It’s her. Look, I know you must have a lot of questions –’

‘Like how the hell she got away back then,’ says Baxter.

‘And how the hell she got away now ,’ says Gis, who’s had more time than the rest of them to think about this. ‘There are no good ways your hair gets on a dead woman.’ He shrugs. ‘Just saying.’

And of course, there’s still more I haven’t said. ‘The other thing to note is that the grave site is only a few feet away from a tree where a woman was imprisoned in the 1600s for being a witch. She starved to death after being tied up and her mouth stopped by a metal gag. Which could just be a particularly gruesome coincidence, but those of you who know me will know what I’m likely to think about that.’