Pie in the Sky

by Relatable Alien

Set around season 1 of the British TV show "Pie in the Sky". (I haven't seen any of the other seasons, so please, no spoilers)

Pie in the Sky story

The rain was pouring down miserably as Margaret Crabbe turned the closed sign on the door of the Pie in the Sky. In the kitchen, Henry Crabbe, Steve, Linda and John sat down, ready to go home to their lovely warm beds.

"Smashing night," Margaret announced, entering the kitchen, smiling broadly. "The new menu must have got them all excited. Unusually good turn out for such a dismal evening." She glanced out the windows as lightning flashed.

"I told you, pie and pudding are perfect food in this weather. Just wait, they'll be lining up for tables soon enough," Henry smiled cheerfully. Thunder boomed outside. The lights flickered, but stayed on determinedly. Margaret sighed, putting her hands in her pockets.

"Right, you all should head off home before this storm gets any worse," she glanced outside again.

"Is that possible?" Steve asked jokingly as he and Linda got up to get their coats.

"Good night," Linda patted Henry on the back as she left. Steve followed her out, fighting against a gust of wind to close the door. John, meanwhile, was distracted by movement at the front of the shop. He stepped forward, looking through the small window, trying to see what had caused the movement.

"John," Margaret said briskly, pulling him from his day dream.

"Oh, sorry, yes, I'll be off then," he nodded to them both as he left.

"Night," Henry said as he shut the door. Margaret sat down next to him on a plain wooden chair, putting an arm over the mass that was his shoulder. "Time to call it a night I suppose." Henry sighed and smiled. "No Fisher yet this month. Perhaps he's forgotten about me."

"There's still a week to go, don't push your luck," Margaret warned him as they both got up. Henry switched off the lights as they headed upstairs to bed. A loud thud from outside the front of the shop distracted them.

"What the devil was that?!" Margaret exclaimed, rushing back down the stairs to the front window. She looked out at the road as a car went past. Henry joined her a second later.

"I hope this doesn't frighten the chickens, we need the eggs," he frowned.

"Never mind, let's go to bed," Margaret patted him on the shoulder and headed back upstairs.

The next morning, Henderson arrived with the vegetables for the next few days. Steve was there, looking over the batch.

"Everything you asked for," he told Crabbe as he finished unloading.

"Excellent," Henry smiled, examining a carrot.

"You're lucky, I had this all packed last night before the storm. My farm is a mess this morning," Henderson exclaimed. "Hey, you might want to get rid of that addition at the front, she might drive away business."

"Addition?" Henry frowned, puzzled.

"Pale as ice, I shouldn't wonder if she sheltered under your eaves last night from the rain. Doesn't look like it did her any good though," Henderson added. He left as Henry went around to the front of the shop. There, just as Henderson had said, a girl lay, pale as can be. From the few metres away where he stood, Henry could hear her rasping for breath. A large purple bruise on one eye was the only colour on her face. Her clothes were saturated through.

"Steve! Get out here!" Henry shouted, going over to the girl. He bent down as Steve raced around the corner, placing a hand on the girl's neck. It felt like ice under his fingers. After a second, her eyes snapped open. She scurried backwards, away from them, tripping over herself and falling down. She coughed constantly, deep in her chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she said frantically, her eyes wide in horror as she struggled to breath. Panting, she went through her backpack, removing an inhaler. She put it to her lips that were numb with cold, her teeth chattering as she struggled to push down the canister so it would dispense a dose of ventolin.

"Here, let me," Henry stepped closer to her as she began to shiver. She shook her head furiously, scurrying backwards again. She managed to press it down once and began to breath the medicine deep into her lungs. "Come inside, you need a doctor." He offered, motioning for her to go around the corner. She continued to take her medicine, her eyes flitting between Henry and Steve every second. After taking four puffs, she lowered her inhaler, putting the cap on it and stuffing it in a pocket. Slowly, she stood, still shaking.

"I shouldn't be here, I'll go, I'm sorry," she stammered. When she spoke, Henry could see that her lips had gone purple.

"What's happening here?" Linda asked, approaching the shop. The girl spun around, recognising her voice. When Linda saw her face, her eyes and mouth opened wide. "Bethany! What're you doing here?" she cried, stepping forward to embrace the younger girl. Bethany wrapped her arms around Linda and held on like her life depended on it. "What happened, you're freezing?!" Linda said, continuing to hold her close.

"Let's go inside," Henry suggested. Bethany shrank back from him. She let go of Linda with one of her arms to rub her neck. Her breathing immediately quickened.

"Beth, calm down," Linda told her. "This is Henry Crabbe, he's a chef. I work for him. And that's Steve, he's my boyfriend." Bethany seemed to calm down when Linda explained this to her.

"They won't hurt me?" she whispered to Linda, her voice still stammering.

"No," Linda reassured Bethany. Henry led the way as the others followed inside.

"Linda, who is she?" Steve asked her as they entered the kitchen, closing the door behind them. The oven had heated the room up nicely. Crabbe was pulling a chair over to it for Bethany. Bethany still clung onto Linda for dear life.

"I knew her sister, we grew up together," Linda explained. "Same grade at school. Bethany was an advanced student."

"Come sit down here Bethany, it's okay," Henry told her. Bethany slowly let go of Linda and sat in the chair in front of the oven. She was hunched over and alert, jittery as though she feared someone would start hitting her. Crabbe stood in front of her, looking at her bruised face. She stared back at him, nearly winching, as though she thought he was about to hit her. "Bethany, where did you get that bruise?" he said softly. The swelling was low because of the cold, but inside he could see that the bruise was relatively fresh. Bethany just looked down at her hands.

"It's okay Bethany, you're safe here," Linda told her as Steve helped her off with her coat.

"Dad," Bethany mumbled, looking at the floor. "He had a lot to drink two nights ago. When he came home, he wasn't happy." Recalling the memory seemed to unnerve her more.

"You just stay and get warm here," Crabbe instructed her. "Steve, keep an eye on her. Linda, a word." He raised his eyebrows above his large glasses at Linda. Bethany looked between them all like a meerkat on guard, but with dread in her eyes.

"It's okay Beth," Linda repeated. "No one here is going to hurt you." Bethany seemed to believe her because she calmed down a little more. Linda followed Henry into the dining room. He turned and raised his eyebrows again, meaning explain.

"Her sister, Claire, was my neighbour," Linda explained. "They were both really great, intelligent, behaved themselves. Then in high school, Claire turned wayward. She started getting into trouble, drugs; she fell in with the wrong group. She died three years ago. Car crash. She was drunk. I heard she had gone out after her father was drunk. She was leaving."

"Abusive father?" Henry asked.

"Very," Linda nodded to emphasis this. "He put their mother in hospital after an argument. That was when she left him. Claire and Beth never heard from her after that. He said she just discharged herself from the hospital and went off someplace else."

"What was their mother like?"

"She loved them more than anything in the world. The only reason she stayed with that bastard was because she had nowhere else to go."

"Bethany is alright though, no drugs or anything?" Henry pressed this question.

"No, we kept in contact after they moved away. I sometimes babysat Beth when her parents and Claire were out," Linda sighed. "She is extremely intelligent. Fast learner."

"Did her family cook?" he got a little side tracked, wondering if he could offer this poor girl a job.

"Her mother did, all the time. Only person I can imagine whose cooking could compare to yours," Linda laughed.

"Good then," Henry smiled.

"Her father's idea of a varied diet was fish n chips, pizza, and anything microwaveable," Linda added.

"But Bethany herself, what is she like in the kitchen?" he persisted.

"Her mother had her and Claire helping out in the kitchen, so she isn't completely oblivious," Linda contemplated. "She was scared of fire when she was little though, didn't even want candles on her birthday cakes."

"Ah," Henry sighed. He glanced through the window at the kitchen.

"So, do you like cooking?" Steve asked Bethany as he began peeling potatoes for the mash.

"Kind of, I don't think I'm very good at it," she mumbled.

"Ever had steak and kidney pie?" he asked her, smiling as he continued to peel potatoes.

"Maybe once or twice," she looked over at what he was doing curiously.

"You'll love Crabbe's pie. Actually, you'll love anything he makes," Steve informed her. She took her puffer again. "What's the story with that?"

"My puffer?"

"Yeah."

"Asthma," she said simply. "I don't do well in winter." She finished her sentence with a large coughing fit.

"You alright?" Steve asked her, putting down his work and going to check on her. She nodded, her free hand up as she continued to cough, signalling for him to stay back. When she finished, she sat there, gasping for breath. She took her inhaler again.

"Sorry, you were saying?" she mumbled, composing herself.

"I think you need to see a doctor," Steve told her. "If you're sick you can't stay in here. This is a working kitchen."

"Do you want me to go?" Bethany asked, picking up her bag and standing, putting it on her shoulder. "I think I've outstayed my welcome anyway. I'll go, thank you for everything." She walked to the door.

"Not so fast," Henry Crabbe strode in, Linda following behind him. "Bethany, what did your father do?" She looked at him, a little confused.

"Do?" she asked, unsure of what he meant. Linda pointed at her own eye to indicate what Crabbe had meant. "Oh..." her voice trialled off as she looked away, hiding it from view.

"Beth," Linda persisted. "Why did you run away?"

"On Monday, he came home drunk," Bethany spoke softly. "He was furious. He'd just lost his job. I was studying in my room, I've finished normal school. I went to an independent sixth form. He came in and started yelling at me. He said he'd kill me, like he killed mother, then he hit me. I ran out of the house. I went back when he was asleep and got the stuff I need." He lifted her bag a little. "I don't want to cause you any trouble Mr Crabbe. I'll go, I've wasted enough of your time."

"Not a step further," Crabbe told her. She stopped, frozen. "We need another pair of hands around here. What you'll do we'll work out later. Right now, I'm going to phone a doctor." He strode past Bethany to the phone, dialling the doctors.

"What's all this?" Margaret exclaimed, entering the room. Bethany looked guiltily at the ground, expecting that she had done something wrong.

"Just a moment Margaret," Henry asked her, then began speaking into the phone.

"Who are you? Henry, you aren't hiring teenagers now, it's a paperwork nightmare!" she continued.

"Okay, half an hour, thank you, bye," Henry finished. He hung up the phone and turned to Bethany. "A doctor will be here to see you in half an hour. Margaret, can you take Bethany upstairs? We have a lot of peeling and chopping to do for this stew." Margaret sighed.

"Thank you Mr Crabbe," Bethany said quietly to him as she followed Margaret out of the room.

"What are you doing here?" Margaret asked her as she sat down, surrounded by notepads, pencils and her calculator. Bethany was examining Henry's bookcase.

"My dad - we don't get along," Bethany spoke softly.

"Speak up, I can hardly hear you," Margaret ordered her as she set about her books again.

"My dad's an alcoholic," Bethany explained. "Mum left seven years ago. We haven't heard from her since she left. My sister, Claire, picked up the booze like dad. She had enough of him, so she packed up her stuff and left three years ago. She died in a car crash 30 minutes after leaving. The police said she was drunk. Since then I've been Dad's anger outlet. Monday night was the last straw." By this point Margaret was watching her intently.

"What happened on Monday night?" Margaret inquired. Bethany faced her and pointed at her eye.

"He said he'd kill me. I believed him," she simply stated. "I'd rather not talk about it." She mumbled, turning back to the bookcase. "Crime and cooking books..." she whispered, running her fingers across the spines.

"My husband used to be a police officer. They still call him in to help with cases every now and then," Margaret said, going back to her work.

"My mum had this book," she mumbled, removing one and looking at the cover. "She said she'd give it to me when I was old enough. I guess she hadn't intended to leave at that point." She turned around and spotted an upright piano hidden in the corner. "Hello..." her voice faded off as she went over to examine it.

"I don't know why Henry kept that old thing, neither of us can play," Margaret sighed. "Can you?"

"A little, not as well as my sister did," Bethany ran her fingertips over the dusty keyboard cover.

"Go ahead, you'll be the first to play it in five years," Margaret told her. Bethany obediently lifted the cover, sitting down on the small stool. She posed her fingers, ready to play. Bethany breathed in deeply the scents of the keys, wood and enamel varnish. She began to play Fur Elise. Margaret slowly lowered the reading glasses from her nose as she played. When she finished, Bethany lowered the cover and turned to her.

"It's a beautiful instrument," she smiled.

"You play music?" Margaret asked her.

"Piano, guitar, singing," Bethany explained, standing up and tucking the piano stool back in. "Nothing extraordinary. I prefer guitar."

"Well, I think it sounds lovely," Margaret said warmly. Bethany smiled, turning to face her.

"Really?" she asked in disbelief.

"Really, I'll have to hear you play more," Margaret assured her. In the kitchens, Crabbe and Steve had halted peeling to go into the dining room so they could hear her playing better.

"She may not be able to cook, but she can play piano," Steve marvelled when she'd finished.

"Don't be so sure Steve, she might be able to cook as well," Henry assured him.

When the doctor arrived, Henry led him upstairs to where Bethany was seated on the floor in the lounge room, reading a crime book.

"Bethany, is it?" the doctor said, putting his bags down beside a table. Bethany closed the book and nodded. "Come sit down here, I'll have a look at you." Bethany obeyed, sitting in the chair he motioned to. Margaret left the room to check on things in the kitchen while Henry stood back, letting the doctor do his checks.

"Where'd you get that bruise sweet heart?" he asked her, examining her eye.

"My dad," was all she said before he nodded understandingly.

"You're lucky you don't have pneumonia," he told her at last, putting his stethoscope in his bag. "Weak immune system, asthmatic, sleeping outside in this weather. It's a wonder you lasted as long as you have."

"Is she alright then?" Henry asked.

"Keep her out of your kitchen for the next two days, just in case," the doctor told him. "And I'd suggest reporting that." He pointed at Bethany's eye. "I'm guessing it isn't your only one." Bethany shook her head, rolling up the sleeves of jacket to reveal more bruises on her arms. "Report it." The doctor repeated.

"My mother tried that, they just gave him a warning about disturbing the peace or something," Bethany informed him. The doctor nodded solemnly as she pulled her sleeves back down.

"Henry, a word," the doctor stepped outside into the hall with Henry, closing the door behind them. "Listen, I'll try and find a place for her to stay. I have a few connections. She seems an alright kid despite her circumstances. She should be easy to find a foster home for."

"No, she trusts me, I'm not sending her to a home Andrew," Henry persisted. "I don't know where she's going to stay, but I'm not giving up on her."

"Well get her to report the abuse. By the sounds of things her father should've been locked away decades ago."

"I'll do my best," Henry promised him.

"It's good you found her when you did, she might be dead after a few more days outside," Andrew sighed. "I'm prescribing her some tablets. Make sure she takes them or she will end up with pneumonia." They entered the room, seeing Bethany staring out the window from her seat.

"Bethany, Doctor Andrew is prescribing you some tablets," Henry told her as the doctor wrote out the prescription.

"How much was the appointment? I have some money," Bethany began rummaging in her bag.

"It's alright," Henry held her hands gently. "We're going to take care of you."

"Klacid, for a week, take it with breakfast and dinner," doctor Andrew handed her the prescription.

"Thanks," Bethany nodded, looking over the prescription.

"I'll be off," Dr Andrew closed his bags and looked out the window for a second. Dark clouds loomed above them. "Bethany, don't go out in the rain. Crabbe, I'll see you on Friday." Dr Andrew left.

"He booked a table for Friday," Henry explained to Bethany. He smiled at her. "Now, you go have a shower. I'll make you some toast and then we're going to the chemist and the police station." Bethany's eyes grew wide.

"Why are we going to the police station?" she asked him, frightened.

"To report your father, I think they'll find the evidence most conclusive," he looked at her over the top of his glasses. Bethany lowered her head and nodded. "You have nothing to fear or be ashamed of." Crabbe insisted. Bethany smiled and wiped her eye.

"Thank you," she told him.

An hour later, they were seat in the car, Bethany with her Klacid, on the way to the police station.

"I'll ask to see PC Cambridge, she's one of the good ones," Henry explained as he drove. The rain was bucketing down around them. The windscreen wipers were struggling to do their job.

"I don't want to waste anyone's time," Bethany murmured, holding the packet close. The heater in the car was on full ball, with winter on its way in a fortnight.

"Believe me, Cambridge will be happy to help you," Crabbe insisted, pulling into the police station parking lot. "Here we are," he said, turning off the engine. He glanced over at his frightened passenger. A little colour had returned to her cheeks since that morning he was happy to note. Not enough for her to look well, but a little. "Don't worry Bethany. They want to help, honestly." Bethany nodded, taking a deep breath.

Striding into the office, Crabbe was followed by Bethany.

"You have a shadow sir," Cambridge smiled as Crabbe entered her office. Bethany was half standing behind him, trying to be invisible. Her black eye was covered, so Cambridge couldn't see the problem.

"Private room if you would, Bethany needs some help," Crabbe said, stepping aside so that Cambridge could see her. Bethany stood straight, looking at Cambridge's desk instead of making eye contact.

"So, what's the problem?" Cambridge asked, pen at the ready, hovering over her piece of paper.

"Alcoholic abusive father," Crabbe said simply from the side of the room where he sat on a chair.

"Your name?" Cambridge asked, putting her pen to the paper.

"Bethany Peterson," Bethany answered.

"Bethany, what's your father's name?" PC Cambridge began filling in the paperwork.

"Jeremy Peterson."

"Do you know if he has had any previous complaints about abuse?" PC Cambridge looked up from her paperwork.

"My mother, a few times from seven to ten years ago," Bethany answered.

"Do you know if he was charged any of those times?" PC Cambridge leant forwards.

"No, he only was ever given a warning about disturbing the peace," Bethany explained.

"What's your mother's name?" PC Cambridge filled in more of her paperwork.

"Diana Peterson," Crabbe froze, frowning at Bethany.

"Did you say Diana Peterson?" he asked her. Bethany nodded.

"Sir?" Cambridge raised her eyebrows. "What is it?"

"Diana Peterson went missing seven years ago."

"That can't be right," Bethany murmured, shaking her head. "She can't be missing."

"Did your father say anything about it after she left?" PC Cambridge inquired.

"He said she'd left us, went off someplace else. He was furious. We had to spend the week at Linda's house," Bethany explained.

"Linda is the waitress at my restaurant," Crabbe explained to Cambridge.

"Has he said anything else about her?" PC Cambridge asked her. Bethany stared at her, tears welling in her eyes.

"On Monday night, I thought it was just because he was drunk and angry but, he said he'd killed her," she whispered. She buried her head in her arms, her curly dark hair covering her face from view. She began shivering. PC Cambridge looked over at Crabbe who watched Bethany, concerned.

"Sir, do you think we may have just uncovered a murder?" Cambridge asked Crabbe as they watched Bethany from outside the interview room. She was curled up in the corner, still shaking.

"Possibly," Crabbe murmured, looking over his glasses at Bethany. "She doesn't look like a liar to me."

"What about her father?" Cambridge asked him. "Do you think he could have murdered her?"

"I took her here to report her father abusing her. I never expected this," he said under his breath.

"I'll ask her a few more questions about that now. Wait in here please sir," Cambridge went to the door.

"Don't you want me getting involved Cambridge?" he asked her.

"No, I want you to tell me what you think when I come back," Cambridge informed him then closed the door. Crabbe returned to watching Bethany. A few seconds later, the door opened and Cambridge walked in.

"Bethany, I need you to tell me what your father did on Monday night," Cambridge knelt down in front of her. She kept her distance though, she didn't want to make Bethany even more anxious. She was rocking on her heels, nibbling her thumb and staring at the wall. "Bethany." Cambridge repeated. Bethany stood up and went over to the table. She removed her thick jacket, revealing a t-shirt over a long sleeved shirt. She rolled up the sleeves, revealing the bruises on her arms once more. Then she sat on the chair and rolled up both of her jeans legs to the knee. Cambridge bent down, examining them.

"What are those scars?" she asked Bethany, pointing at her left arm.

"He broke a wine bottle. Three years ago when Claire left. He told A&E it was an accident or something," Bethany told her. Then she turned around and pulled up the back of her shirt. A massive bruise stretched on her left side from her shoulder bone to her waist.

"I'll need to photograph these for evidence," Cambridge informed her when she lowered the back of her shirt. Bethany nodded.

In the viewing room, Crabbe silently promised Bethany that no matter what it took, justice would be served on Jeremy Peterson.

"I never thought he'd killed her," Bethany began after she'd told Cambridge about everything that had happened. "It was weird, how she didn't tell Claire and me, she just left. I guess it makes sense that he would've killed her. She wouldn't abandon us, never. I just, never thought he had the guts to kill someone. I guess I was wrong."

"Bethany, we're going to bring your father in for questioning," PC Cambridge told her. Bethany looked up at her.

"I don't want to talk to him, I don't want to see him," she said before Cambridge could suggest it.

"You will need to speak in court if he does get charged with abuse and if he did murder your mother," Cambridge informed her. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"Three years ago, he came home drunk. Claire had been drinking as well. He hit her, said she was stupid. They had a loud argument. Then she left in her car. She died after crashing into a tree half an hour later," Bethany told Cambridge. "I don't know if that counts as murder, but I know that if he hadn't hit her, if they hadn't argued that night, she wouldn't have gotten into her car."

"So he caused your sister's death as well?" Cambridge asked her. Bethany nodded. "Thank you Bethany." She stood and left, going to the observation room where Henry was waiting. "Well?" she asked him. He was seated on a bench, watching Bethany carefully.

"That man is a monster," he said after a few moments.

"Why do you think Diana Peterson's disappearance wasn't investigated?" she crossed her arms, cocking one hip in a thoughtful manner.

"That's precisely what I'll be asking Fisher," he stood and left the room.

"You believe some homeless slut that Diana Peterson was murdered? She disappeared Crabbe," Fisher shouted, annoyed.

"Do you know Bethany Peterson, sir?" Crabbe asked him calmly.

"No and I don't need to to know she is lying," Fisher snarled.

"Well I believe she is telling the truth, so I shall be questioning her father," Crabbe stood and walked to the door.

"I'm not bailing you out if you're wrong," Fisher told him.

"Then I expect you won't be taking the credit when I'm right," Crabbe said over his shoulder. Fisher took in a short quick breath. "Thank you sir." He left, closing Fisher's door after him.

"Bethany, I've called John, he's coming to pick you up. He's taking you back to the restaurant," Crabbe explained to Bethany, helping her get her coat back on. "Those bruises must hurt."

"The cold helps," Bethany murmured.

"It's hot in here," Henry pointed out, fiddling with his collar. Bethany nodded, looking away.

"You're not coming back with me?" Bethany asked him, staring at the skirting board.

"No, I'm staying here to question your father. PC Cambridge just left to fetch him," Henry told her. He put a hand on her shoulder. Bethany looked up into his eyes. "Take care of yourself." Bethany nodded and went into the waiting room where John was going to pick her up.

PC Cambridge stood at the door of Jeremy Peterson's house. She pressed the button. Inside she heard something clatter to the ground.

"What do you want?" a man's voice shouted through the door.

"My name is PC Cambridge, I'm here to talk to Jeremy Peterson," she held up her ID so that the person looking through the spy hole could see it. The door opened a crack, revealing a man with a stubble beard, bleary eyes and a bottle of beer in his hand.

"Talk then," he instructed her. Cambridge sighed.

"There have been reports that you abused your daughter, Bethany Peterson, on Monday night," Cambridge informed him. Jeremy spat at the floor.

"Beth is a lying swine," he snarled.

"You are denying you abused her then?" Cambridge asked him.

"I love my daughter," Peterson exclaimed. "She's ill, officer. Mentally ill. She makes up stories about being abused after harming herself. I'd never lay a finger to harm her."

"Nonetheless," Cambridge informed him. "If you would please accompany me to the station, Mr Peterson."

"Just tell me where my daughter is, you won't have any trouble from her again," he plastered on a very fake smile.

"I'm afraid that is out of the question, now please come with me to the station," Cambridge repeated assertively.

"No, not until I've seen my daughter," Peterson slammed the door shut.

"Then Mr Peterson, I am arresting you on suspicion of physically abusing your youngest daughter, being instrumental in the death of your oldest daughter and murdering your wife Diana Peterson," Cambridge told him. "Please leave the building." Not wanting to bring a squadron down on himself, Mr Peterson opened the door and strode out to Cambridge's car.

"I know my rights," Mr Peterson told her. "I want my lawyer."

"That will be arranged at the station, Mr Peterson," Cambridge told him.

"I think that Mr Crabbe is wanting to offer you a job Bethany, to help you," John explained to Bethany who was seated beside him in the car.

"I don't have any previous experience," Bethany admitted. "I've never had a proper job before. My father has taught me how to mix drinks though." John gaped, amazed.

"You know how to mix drinks?!" he exclaimed. "But you're not even legal drinking age!"

"I'm sixteen," Bethany informed him. "The only time he was ever nice to me when he was drunk. He was having trouble mixing them himself, he'd made so many. Claire was high. That wasn't long after mum left." Her voice caught in her throat when she realised her error.

"Is something the matter?" John asked her gently.

"I'd rather not talk about it," Bethany turned to look out the window. Her cheeks had blushed pink.

"Steve said you played the piano this morning," John tried to start another line of conversation.

"Yes, I love music," Bethany continued to look out the window.

"Perhaps you could perform at the restaurant, provide entertainment, you know," John smiled, trying to encourage her.

"I'll wait and see what Mr Crabbe says first," Bethany interjected.

Back at the station

Mr Peterson was smiling, leaning back in his chair, as though he knew an inside joke and was refusing to tell. "My daughters both have mental illness, you see. The oldest tried to self medicate with various substances. I never supported her in this. In fact, I frequently tried to make arrangements for both to have psychiatric assessments, but my wife refused. She was also mentally unstable."

"So, mental instability runs in her family then?" Cambridge asked him.

"I believe so," Peterson nodded. "I've done my best to get them the help they need. Psychiatry for three people is no easy pill to pay I'm afraid."

"It must have been hard for you," Crabbe raised an eyebrow.

"Believe me, you have no idea," Peterson implored him. Crabbe shook his head.

"That's the problem though, I don't believe you," Crabbe looked at him over his glasses. "What you've done is wrong. I've met Bethany. The only mental instability she has you caused over many years of abusing her, Claire and Diana."

"You can't trust my daughter," Peterson begged him. Crabbe stood and left the room.

"Mr Peterson, you don't have to accept this treatment," his lawyer whispered to him. "DI Crabbe's remarks are prejudice. You can lodge a complaint against him."

"Thank you Graham," Peterson nodded to his lawyer.

"I will be right back," Cambridge stood and followed Crabbe out of the room. She found him in the viewing room, glaring at Peterson.

"Bethany isn't the mentally ill one, he is," he jabbed a large finger in Peterson's direction.

"You really care about her, don't you sir," Cambridge watched Crabbe.

"Yes, I do," Crabbe nodded, his eyes more open than their usual. He was getting angry, Cambridge noted.

"Perhaps you should go and ask their neighbours, see if they have anything to say. If they agree with Bethany, Peterson is on his own," Cambridge suggested.

"Good idea Cambridge. You keep him here, see if he cracks," Crabbe instructed her before striding purposefully out of the room.

"Good afternoon, I'm sorry to disturb you," Crabbe smiled at the old lady who answered the doorbell of the house to the right of Peterson's. "I'm detective inspector Crabbe. Mr Jeremy Peterson, your neighbour, would you happen to be aware of his treatment of his daughter Bethany?" The old lady scrunched up her wrinkly face in thought. Behind her in the living room a cat was meowing loudly.

"There is a lot of shouting from that house at night time," the old lady finally said.

"On Monday, did you hear any shouting at all?" he inquired. She scrunched up her face again.

"What day is it today?" she asked.

"Wednesday," Crabbe informed her. She thought for a little longer.

"Yes, there was a loud crash against the wall. He was shouting at darling Bethany," the old lady began to get concerned. "Then there was the crash. She screamed. I looked out my window upstairs just as she ran outside. Is Bethany alright?"

"She is safe," Crabbe assured her. "Thank you very much, Miss?"

"Ingrid Robert," she told him. "If you see Bethany, tell her she's welcome to come around sometime. We usually make cakes together you see. Well, I tell her what to do and she does everything. Sweet girl. Very smart."

"Thank you Miss Robert," Crabbe smiled, crinkling his eyes up.

"Good day," she smiled up at him before shuffling back inside and closing the door. Crabbe went over to the house on the left side of Peterson's. He only had to knock twice before it opened.

"Yes, what do you want?" a woman answered. She looked to be about forty five with sandy blonde hair.

"I'm detective inspector Crabbe," Crabbe told her, holding up his ID. "On Monday night, did you hear anything unusual from the Peterson's house next door?" he gestured to indicate the house.

"No, nothing unusual," the woman shook her head. She'd emphasised 'unusual' in an odd manner, Crabbe thought. A scruffy haired boy appeared on the stairs behind her.

"Mum, who is it?" he asked, starting to go down the stairs.

"He's a policeman Tommy, now go back to your room and do your homework," she instructed him. Tommy ignored her, going down a few steps.

"Are you here about Mr Peterson hitting Bethany?" Tommy asked him.

"Yes, do you know anything about it?" Crabbe asked him. The boy wore a jumper a size too large and had large spectacles on his nose.

"Yeah, I'll show you," he said, indicating for Crabbe to go up to his bedroom. Tommy's mother considered not letting Crabbe enter for a moment before he went past her, up the stairs to her son's room. When Crabbe entered, it was neat and tidy with a packed bookshelf and desk where Tommy's homework was half completed. In the corner there was a ladder and a trapdoor leading to the attic. Tommy was rummaging under his bed.

"Here it is," he announced, taking out a shoe box. He opened it, revealing some A5 notebooks, a couple of instant photos and a few tapes. He took out the top book. "Ages ago I asked Bethany what all the shouting was about at her house. She told me that her Dad had been hurting her, so I started to keep a log of all the times I heard shouting, if I heard any specific words and if there were any screams or crashes." He passed the notebook to Crabbe who flicked through it. Tommy had kept a detailed log. He noticed that the most recent entry was that Monday night.

"You said you didn't hear anything on Monday night," Crabbe turned to Tommy's mother who was standing in the doorway. She looked angry at Tommy for keeping the log book.

"Nothing unusual, shouting and screaming from the Peterson's isn't unusual," she raised her nose.

"Yes, I've gathered that now," Crabbe held up the nearly full book. He turned back to Tommy. "How do you know what they said, their house is on the other side of the stairway. Did you listen at the wall?"

"I tried to, but mum didn't like me doing that and told me to stop, so I went into the attic. The attic joins this row of houses, you can go from house to house in it without anyone knowing. I could hear it really well from up there," Tommy explained, taking one of the tapes from the box. There was a piece of paper on the cover with dates, referencing it back to the log book. "I recorded some of their arguments." He went to put the tape in his player.

"Tommy, you've been spying on our neighbours!" his mother exclaimed loudly. "I did not raise my son to be a gatherer of gossip."

"I was doing it for Bethany," Tommy told her. "She needs help. I wanted to make a record so that if the police found out they'd have more evidence." Tommy pressed the play button and turned the volume up. The room filled with Jeremy Peterson shouting. There was a pause, a loud crash and a scream just like Miss Robert had said.

"This is Monday night," Crabbe told him as Tommy removed the cassette from the player, put it back in it's case and returned it to the box.

"Yeah," Tommy nodded. "I only started recording them a few months ago, when I got my microphone." He pointed at a microphone sitting proudly beside his bed. "When Beth had really bad injuries, I tried to persuade her to let me take photos of them." He pointed to the collection of photos in the box. They were also dated.

"Tommy, how far back do your records go?" Crabbe asked him.

"The first one I wrote down was about three years ago, a month before Claire died," he explained. "It was after that I asked Bethany and started taking a proper record. Take them Mr Crabbe." He held up the box for Crabbe to take. He accepted, putting the latest log book in before placing the lid back on top.

"Thank you Tommy, you've done well," Crabbe told him. "This is the evidence we need to at least charge Mr Peterson with his assault of Bethany." Tommy nodded solemnly.

"Can you tell Bethany I hope she's okay? I saw her run out on Monday night," Tommy wiped his glasses with a handkerchief.

"I will Tommy," Crabbe assured him. "She's being taken care of."

"It's just that she's the only friend I've got," he admitted, biting his lip.

"I understand Tommy," Crabbe told him. When he was going down the stairs he heard Tommy's mother say to him, "Wait until your father hears about this."

Arriving back at the restaurant, Crabbe hurried upstairs to put the box somewhere safe. Bethany was eating a roll at the table.

"I have money, I'll pay for it," she promised Crabbe when he entered the room.

"Don't worry," he told her, seeing that she'd taken the first dose of Klacid like the doctor had asked her to. He put the box on the TV stand.

"What's that?" she asked him, curious about the box.

"Tommy, your neighbour, he's kept records for three years and made recordings of some of the incidences with your dad," Crabbe explained to her. "Don't touch them, I'll be up to read and listen to them later."

"Tommy Taylor?" she asked him.

"I don't know his last name," Crabbe admitted.

"His mother and father don't know do they? It's just that they never really approved of him being friends with me at school and they can be really hard on him when he hasn't done anything wrong..." her voice trailed off.

"His mother was there when he gave them to me," he told her. Bethany nodded and returned to eating her roll. "He also wanted me to tell you that he hoped you're okay." Bethany nodded again, finishing her mouthful.

Down in the kitchens it was all hands on deck with the restaurant opening in an hour. Steve and Henry were cooking while Linda and John were preparing the front of house as Margaret manned the cash register. Bethany sat on the steps leading up to the Crabbe's residence, watching everything intently. She was looking to see if anyone needed her help. She hated being a burden and wanted to earn her keep.

"Bethany is watching us out there like she's a meerkat or something," John laughed as he checked the wine list with the collection.

"She is wanting to see where she can help," Linda told him.

"Are you planning on giving her a job boss?" Steve asked Henry as he continued to cook.

"I've counted the register, it's all set for tonight," Margaret informed them, sticking her head in the door before removing it again.

"I hope to when I find out what she can do," Henry informed the gathering. "One of her neighbours said she baked cakes with her, so she may not be a lost cause Steve."

"She told me earlier that her father taught her how to mix drinks," John remarked before going back into the dining room.

"Mix drinks!" Henry exclaimed. "A child mixing drinks!"

"That does sound like something her father would do," Linda commented. "He had a good taste for alcohol when he was sober enough." She followed John back into the dining room.

"A sixteen year old mixing drinks?!" Henry said to Steve, utterly outraged by this finding. "What kind of a man is Jeremy Peterson?!"

"The kind you can worry about after nine," Steve replied.

In the dining room, Linda went over to check on Bethany.

"How was your day Beth?" she asked her, leaning against the wall.

"Odd," she nodded and said solemnly. Linda laughed at the younger girl. "Is there anything I can help with?" She asked eagerly.

"Not tonight," Linda smiled at her.

"I doubt I'd be spending the night here if Claire had stayed your friend and hadn't gotten in with the wrong crowd," Bethany sighed.

"There are a lot of if's, would be's and could be's in the world Beth, there's no point lingering on them," Linda said wisely. Bethany looked down at the carpet, shuffling her foot. "Mr Crabbe will sort it all out, don't worry." She returned to setting up the room with John.

Hearing the muffled voices from her spot at the bar, Margaret headed back into the kitchen to see what the commotion was.

"Really, what is the problem?" she asked Henry and Steve.

"A sixteen year old who can mix drinks Margaret!" Henry exclaimed. "Sixteen and mixing drinks!"

"Calm down Henry, you don't know if she can until you've seen her do it," she instructed him before heading back out to the dining room.

"Were they arguing about me?" Bethany asked her, standing aside as Margaret headed upstairs.

"Henry has come across the notion that you know how to mix drinks," Margaret admitted to her.

"Oh, John must've told him," she frowned slightly, looking at the wall.

"Can you?" Margaret asked her.

"Yeah," Bethany said it as though it weren't a big deal. Margaret's eyes widened. "I've never drunk alcohol myself, I don't want to end up like Claire or Dad." She said, sensing what Margaret had been thinking.

"Come upstairs, tell me what drinks you can mix," Margaret instructed her. Bethany followed obediently, beginning to list off various cocktails and how they were made as well as their mocktail, non-alcoholic alternatives. By the time she had finished her list, Margaret was amazed. There were drinks she'd never even heard of before that Bethany seemed to know confidently how to make.

Bethany waited upstairs as the restaurant filled. She looked over the information she'd written in her notebook when her father had taught her how to mix drinks. Downstairs, people began their dinners with not a care in the world.

As the last pair left, they all set about closing up the restaurant. Not long after, Henry and Margaret went upstairs to their home.

"Here's a pillow and some blankets," Margaret passed them to Bethany, setting up the sofa for her to sleep on. Henry collected the box Tommy had entrusted him with. "Sleep well." Margaret said, leaving the room.

"You know where the bathroom is if you need anything," Henry said to Bethany.

"The photographs are in there, aren't they," Bethany said. Henry knew she meant in the box.

"Yes," he replied.

"Have you looked at them?"

"Not yet," Henry watched as she nodded and turned back to her makeshift bed. "Is there anything you want to tell me before I look at them?" Bethany seemed to consider this, deciding against it. She shook her head.

Henry left the room so she could go to sleep. Bethany lay down on the sofa, thinking she'd be awake for hours. But her exhaustion kicked in and she was asleep within ten minutes.

When Henry lay down to sleep, he found his mind kept returning to focusing on the box. At last, he got out of bed and headed downstairs so he could look through it, taking his cassette player with him. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked at the photographs and listened to the tapes. It wasn't long before he tired of this. His heart burned with anger. As he headed back upstairs, the door to the lounge where Bethany was creaked open slowly. He stopped outside it.

"I heard you listening to the tapes," Bethany spoke softly, a little louder than a whisper, looking down at the floorboards.

"I understand now," Henry put his free hand on her shoulder. She nodded, still looking at the floor. "Your father is an evil man, and he won't get away with it any longer."

"Thank you, Mr Crabbe," Bethany whispered, her voice cracking. Henry returned to his and Margaret's bedroom, leaving Bethany to return to the sofa.

The next morning, Henry set off for the police station first thing, the box of tapes, photos and log books with him. Striding into Cambridge's office, he placed the box on her desk.

"Jeremy Peterson is a vile monster that you should lock up and through away the key," Henry told her as she lifted the lid and began looking at the photos.

"Are these pictures of Bethany after his drunken attacks?" Cambridge asked. Henry nodded, taking a seat.

"Luckily their neighbour Tommy Taylor kept a log of the arguments," Crabbe informed her as she continued examining the box's contents. "Log book - with details of some phrases he heard, whether there were screams or crashes - quite a few photographs and tapes from the last few months." He stepped forwards and took the most recent one. "Including Monday night." He put it in the tape player he'd brought with him, pressing play. Cambridge concentrated, listening closely to the argument.

"It's going to take a while looking through all of that," she looked at the box. "And I'm afraid we have to examine the evidence before we bring Peterson back in. Fisher's orders."

"Then we'd better get cracking Cambridge," he said, pulling up the chair and sitting down next to her desk.

Bethany's morning went quietly. Still being under a sort of quarantine from the kitchen, she spent most of the day in the lounge room, reading or playing piano. Just after she'd eaten lunch, Margaret came in, followed by John.

"You said you can mix drinks," she said to Bethany. "Would you care to show us?"

"Am I allowed to? I don't want to cause any trouble, not being eighteen yet or anything," she asked them innocently.

"It's quite alright," John assured her. "Just show us a mocktail or two for starters."

Down at the bar, Bethany looked over the options she had.

"This isn't a drink mixer's style of collection," she said, deciding what she'd make. "But I can make a few things." She began demonstrating this, mixing three different kinds of mocktail from memory. Tasting them, Margaret and John were surprised at how good they were.

"This is incredible," John exclaimed.

"Mocktails would create more options for people who don't drink alcohol," Margaret agreed with him. "I expect they'd be more popular in summer. I'll have a chat with Henry about it." Hearing the discussion, Steve and Linda appeared from the kitchen. Spotting Bethany standing behind the bar, Linda was concerned.

"Beth, what's going on?" she asked her.

"Margaret and John like my mocktails," Bethany smiled at her. Steve stepped forward, tasting one himself.

"That'd go marvellously with a cold salad, grilled salmon," he exclaimed.

"Where'd you learn to make these?" Linda asked Bethany after tasting another herself.

"One of the three valuable things my dad ever taught me," Bethany said, a little snarky.

"And what would the other two be?" Steve asked, distracted by the ideas he was having for that summer.

"Never live with an alcoholic and the phrase 'whatever doesn't kill you can only make you stronger' is complete rubbish," Bethany said softly, her eyes going icy. The mood of the group lowered at her statement.

As they finished listening to the last tape, Crabbe stood up. "Let's go nab the bastard," he snarled, his blood running with fire.

"He was released last night after you'd gone," Cambridge explained, getting her things. "My guess is if he isn't at home he'll be at the pub."

Upon arriving at his house, they stood and waited at the door. There was no reply. A few metres away, Mrs Taylor had stepped onto her doorstep and was glaring at them.

"Excuse me Mrs Taylor, would you know where we might find Mr Jeremy Peterson?" Cambridge asked her as Henry went over and peeked into the window.

"He came home drunk last night, I heard him yelling sea chanties as he came down the street. Broke a few glasses when he got home I'm guessing. There were a few smashes against the wall. He went out this morning and hasn't come back," Mrs Taylor informed them.

"If he does return home, call the police immediately," Cambridge instructed her. She turned to Crabbe who was still looking through the front window. "Sir." She said, getting his attention. He turned to her.

"We should try the pub," he suggested before they set off.

At the pub, they were informed by the barman that Jeremy Peterson hadn't been there since the night before.

"Great, he's gone missing," Crabbe snapped unhappily as they returned to the car. "Where do we go now?" he asked Cambridge as she switched on the engine.

"You should go home sir," she told him, beginning to drive off. "I'll have an alert sent out and some officers on the job."

Taking Cambridge's advice, Henry returned home.

"About time!" Steve exclaimed as he entered the kitchen.

"I'm sorry Steve, we're trying to catch Bethany's father but he's given us the slip," Crabbe sighed, putting on his apron and joining Steve at the oven. In the corner, Bethany gasped. Henry turned, spotting her. "What're you doing in here?" he asked her.

"Do you know where my dad is?" Bethany asked him, staying on her stool.

"No, but I promise you're safe here," Crabbe reassured her. "Now, go upstairs."

"She helped me with the peeling and chopping," Steve told him. "I needed the extra pair of hands." Crabbe noticed that her hair was tied back and she was wearing an apron. John burst in, reminding them that this was a working kitchen.

"Two steak and kidney pies and three lamb roasts for table eight," he informed them. Steve immediately went to work.

"We're going to need more carrots, twenty minutes in and I'm already running out," he told Henry as he worked. Crabbe looked over at Bethany. He beckoned her over. She stood beside him. He handed her a chopping board.

"Carrots," he told her. She nodded, accepting the board. Setting up on a free bench, she fetched a small bucket of clean carrots and set to work.

By the end of the night, Bethany was exhausted. She had been determined to work, but Henry had forced her to stop out of fear she might accidentally nick herself with the knife. She sat in the corner, watching the others as the night drew to a close.

"Table six said the gravy was excellent," Linda informed them, bringing in the last set of dishes. Bethany went over to the sink, helping Steve wash up.

"It's alright, you rest," Steve insisted. "We don't want you dropping anything." Bethany returned to her stool in silence. Margaret came in, beaming like the Sun.

"Another solid night of earnings," she informed them. "Great work everyone. It'll be busy tomorrow, we're almost fully booked."

"Steve, we'll need to get the steak ready tomorrow for the Saturday pies," Crabbe informed him as Steve finished washing the dishes. He nearly looked dead on his feet but was smiling happily.

"Rightio boss," he nodded, hanging up his apron. "See you all tomorrow." He and Linda both left, an arm around each other.

"I'll be off too," John said to them. "See you Bethany," he gave Bethany a small wave as he left the kitchen. He had taken a fancy to the young girl - purely protective big brother instinct, nothing romantic.

"Tomorrow, do you want me to help chop vegetables before people arrive then do the dishes for the rest of the night?" Bethany asked Henry. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at Margaret. "I want to work, to repay you for taking care of me."

"What do you think Margaret?" he turned to his wife.

"Actually, Steve was thinking earlier about having a mocktail menu this summer. Bethany can mix them very well," she could see the still uncertainty in his eyes. "Just, to trial it for a week or two." Henry smiled.

"You've got the job," Crabbe informed Bethany. "For now, you are apprentice chef. You'll help with preparing food and cleaning dishes." Bethany leapt up and hugged him. Her thin body was tiny compared to Henry's large gut.

"Thank you thank you thank you!" she repeated gleefully then hugged the bemused Margaret.

"Until new arrangements can be made," Margaret said when Bethany released her. Bethany froze. "It's just temporary Bethany. Until things with your father get sorted out."

"The trial may take a few months," Henry admitted. "After that social services might try and find a foster family for you," he'd discussed the topic with Cambridge early. He'd persuaded her that Bethany needed something constant in her life. Henry would sort out where she could live until the trial was over, when social services would take over.

"Oh," Bethany breathed and looked down. "Where will they send me?" she asked after a few moments of silence.

"I don't know, but I'll make sure that it's a good home," Crabbe assured her. "You can't live on our sofa for the next few months, so we will need to organise a place you can stay. Did you have any other friends or relatives?"

"Only Tommy, and his parents would never let me stay with them," Bethany was looking at the floor again, a mannerism Crabbe noticed she did when she was nervous, sad or uncomfortable. "I don't know any relatives outside my mum, dad and sister."

"We'll have to organise something," Margaret interjected before the conversation went too far. "It's time for bed right now I think." She stifled a yawn with her hand. Bethany headed upstairs ahead of them, downcast and anxious.

Later that night, Henry woke to the sound of breaking glass which he suspected was coming from downstairs. He shook Margaret to wake her up. Glancing at the clock revealed it was 3:43 in the morning.

"Henry, what is it?" she mumbled sleepily.

"I think someone's broken in," he whispered back. Margaret turned over.

"Go back to sleep, it's just your imagination," Margaret told him. He'd grown restless during his time as a cop, but he admitted defeat and lay down to go back to sleep when a loud scream, followed by a crash echoed through the house. He jumped up like he hadn't just been asleep, followed by Margaret out the door to the landing.

"Bethany!" he shouted, seeing a man covered in shadows carrying her limp body on his shoulder. "Put her down!" Crabbe demanded, pursuing the man as he disappeared down the steps. "Come back Peterson!" he shouted again, on the mans tail.

"Stay out of it copper," Peterson snarled back, kicking a table at Crabbe while he raced through to the kitchen, exiting from the door he'd broken in from.

"Stop!" Crabbe shouted, standing up again, still going after Peterson. It was too late. As he reached the door to the lane, Crabbe heard Peterson's car start and race off down the road. Running back inside, Margaret stood in the kitchen.

"What's happened? Who was that?" she demanded as he dialled the police on the phone.

"Jeremy Peterson, Bethany's father," he said before speaking into the phone. "Police please. Hello, this is detective inspector Crabbe. This is an emergency. A girl, Bethany Peterson has just been kidnapped by her father, Jeremy Peterson."

As the sun began to rise, Henry climbed into Cambridge's car. He had only found time to dress.

"Go to Peterson's house, there might be some clues there," he ordered her as they sped off. Arriving with two more cars on their boot, Cambridge strode up to the door and knocked hard.

"Mr Peterson, open up in the name of the law!" she shouted, trying the door handle. Crabbe peeked in through the window again.

"Someone has definitely been in there," Crabbe informed them. "The bottles have moved around since last time."

"Get this open," Cambridge ordered one of the officers. Mrs Taylor stuck her head out of the door, her head covered with a night cap, a dressing gown hurriedly put on. Other people were looking out their windows.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"Bethany has been kidnapped, her father took her," Crabbe informed her. Mrs Taylor looked surprised.

"The door is reinforced from the inside ma'am and the windows are too small to get through," the officer told her.

"Find another way in," Cambridge ordered him. Above them, Tommy's window opened. He leaned out and shouted down to Crabbe. "He's in the attic! I can hear him!" Cambridge turned to the other officers. She gave them each orders in turn.

"Keep guard on the front of the houses, go around the back that way to make sure he doesn't escape out the back," she instructed them. "You two with me," she ordered the final pair, going over to the Taylor's house. Mrs Taylor let them pass with out a qualm. Tommy was still leant out his window.

"Tommy, get the ladder ready but don't open the trapdoor yet!" Crabbe told him, followed Cambridge and the others into his house. He lagged behind on the stairs, very much out of shape. They could hear the footsteps above them when they reached Tommy's room. He had the ladder ready. The first officer burst into the roof, turning on a flash light.

"I can see him!" he shouted as the other climbed up.

"Pursue and arrest," Cambridge ordered, following after them both. She also ran after Mr Peterson. Crabbe turned to Tommy.

"Where's Bethany?" Tommy asked him.

"Follow me," Crabbe told him and began climbing the stairs. The others were already disappearing down someone else's trapdoor further along the row of houses. He and Tommy went down the one Peterson had left open. Tommy close on his heels, Crabbe went from room to room. Hearing running water from the bathroom, he rammed the door open. Bethany lay, gagged and bound, tied down in the bathtub. The water was running, rising. Her eyes were closed. Crabbe turned the water off, pulling out the plug as Tommy struggled to undo her bonds. She was still unconscious, but breathing Crabbe was happy to find.

"He was trying to drown her," Tommy deduced as he and Crabbe worked to release Bethany.

"Yes, but we stopped him just in time," Crabbe said. Blood was seeping from a wound in Bethany's head. Downstairs he could hear Cambridge's shouts. She'd caught Peterson. "Tommy, go down and let Cambridge in and tell her we need an ambulance here right away." Crabbe rested a hand on Bethany's shoulder as she lay there, motionless apart from her shallow breathing.

"Stop worrying, she'll be fine," Margaret told Henry in an effort to get him concentrating on his cooking instead of talking about Bethany.

"They have the monster responsible," Linda added.

"You've done your best," Steve chimed in.

"Bethany's a strong girl, she can pull through this," John reassured him. She still hadn't woken. The paramedics weren't certain if she'd suffered any brain damage.

"When she wakes up, she'll need a place to stay," Crabbe finally dropped the point about her being unconscious. "She can't live on our sofa forever," he continued. "Do any of you know a place nearby she can stay?" Steve and Linda both shook their heads. They only had a small flat and were busy enough without a teenage girl to worry about.

"I have a spare bed at my apartment," John told them. "She can rent with me."

"Great," Crabbe patted him on the back. "I'm glad we have that sorted."

The next day, Henry sat by Bethany's hospital bed. He sat in a chair, pen and notebook out, piecing together some other dishes for spring and summer menus. One of the machines began making unusual beeps, alerting him that she was waking up. He stood and went to her side, slipping his hand into hers. Slowly, her eyes blinked open. She stared ahead for a few moments before her eyes gradually drifted to Henry.

"Dad," she croaked.

"He's in prison awaiting trial. We've caught him. There's no way he's getting away with this," he promised her. She glanced down and around her at all the machines.

"Where am I?" she croaked.

"In hospital. You have a fractured skull and some bruising," he explained gently. Bethany blinked at him groggily and winched.

"Hurts," she spoke quietly.

"How much of it do you remember?" he queried.

"I heard the window break," Bethany continued speaking in her croaky voice. "Before I knew what was happening he was in the room. I screamed and he hit me on the head. I woke up, bound and gagged. He swore he was going to kill me." Tears streamed down the side of her face onto the pillow. "Then he hit me on the head again. What happened?"

"He had you tied up in the bath with the water running. If Tommy and I hadn't found you, you would've drowned," Henry explained. A few tears ran down the sides of her face, but she wasn't crying. "We've listened to the tapes. He's being charged with assaulting you and your sister, as well as attempted murder." Bethany nodded.

"What about mum?" she asked him, her large eyes staring at him. Henry looked away uneasily.

"All the evidence would have disappeared long ago, we can only find out what happened to her if he confesses," he explained. Bethany took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. Her heart broke as loneliness entered her mind.

"No!" she shouted mentally at the tsunami as it tried to drown her emotions. "I have Tommy, he cares about me. He and Mr Crabbe saved my life. I'm not alone. Mr Crabbe let me sleep on his sofa after I ran away from home. He's helped me."

"But he doesn't want you at the restaurant anymore. He wants to kick you out like your father did," it argued back. Bethany admitted that this was a fair point.

"When will I be out of hospital?" she asked Mr Crabbe.

"A few days," he promised her. "No contact sports for the rest of the month."

"What about working at your restaurant? I must repay you for helping me," she asked him. He smiled.

"When you're up to it you can start work," he told her. "We've also found a place you can stay. John is happy to offer you a room at his place. He's been trying to find a good boarder, and he thinks you'll do well." Bethany nodded slightly, not having the energy to continue talking. Her head had also started to pang. "He won't over charge you on rent, and you'll be close to the restaurant."

"Perfect," Bethany whispered. Her head was starting to get more painful. One of the machines wired up to her beeped loudly, a warning of some kind. A nurse rushed in. "What's going on?" Bethany asked, concerned. Her eyes were wide in terror.

"Just relax, dear," the nurse told her, drawing some clear liquid into a syringe. "Everything's fine." She told her as she inserted the needle into the port that had been placed in her arm. Her world swirled and pitched as the pain killer/ sedative combination took effect. The machine continued to beep loudly. She updated Bethany's chart as well as fiddling with the drips going into her body. Crabbe sat down to the side and watched as she inserted a device into the side of Bethany's head covered in bandages where her father had hit her. Connecting a clear tube up to one of the machines behind her, she pressed a button and amber fluid flowed down the tube into the machine.

"What's that doing?" Crabbe asked her as the machine stopped beeping.

"There is extra fluid putting pressure on her brain," the nurse explained to him. "That machine senses it, alerts us. It wasn't drastic, she's lucky. This one removes the excess fluid." Crabbe frowned. The nurse saw this. "It's her body trying to heal itself. In all likelihood it'll stop with in the next 24 hrs as the bone begins to heal."

"Do you know when she can be discharged?" Crabbe inquired.

"It's too early to say, but I think she should be much better with in the week," the nurse said. "We just need to keep the pressure on her brain in check and make sure she doesn't go into a coma."

"What would happen then?" Crabbe asked her, deeply concerned.

"If she went into a coma in her present state, there is a chance she wouldn't wake up," the nurse was sorry to leave on this sad note, but she knew the likelihood of Bethany entering a coma was extremely low since she'd been taken to hospital in quick enough time.

Crabbe continued to cook for the restaurant as Bethany lay in hospital, usually asleep under sedation. Her father was kept in prison, having daily meetings with his lawyer as Cambridge and her team built the case against him. Wednesday came and Bethany was released from the hospital under instructions to rest at home.

"Here's your room," John told Bethany as he showed her around his flat. She had a series of large stitches on her head and metal plates had been placed in her skull to make sure the bone healed correctly. It was a modest room with a simple bed and a window facing onto the park. "Do you know when you'll be getting your things from your father's house?" he asked her as she walked around the room. It was bare of any other furnishings, however the curtains were a lovely shade of burgundy red.

"Probably after the trial," she said, sitting down on the bed. "How much will the rent be?" she turned her head over her shoulder to look at him.

"Fifty pounds a week," he informed her.

"Only fifty?" she asked, surprised.

"You need a place to stay and that's all I need to make the mortgage payments, it's quite alright," he assured her. "Pie in the Sky is the biggest part of my life."

"Do you have a girlfriend or partner?" Bethany wanted to make sure she wouldn't be stepping on someone else's toes if she lived with John. He sat down on the bed next to her, looking out the window.

"No, I've never really been the romantic," he said. "I love my job. Food and wine interest me." He put a hand gently on her shoulder. "I want you to feel safe here. Do you?" Bethany started to feel uncomfortable him being so close to her.

"Um..." she bit her lip. She didn't want to go from one bad situation to another. John realised the look on her face.

"Oh, right, sorry," he smiled, taking his arm off her shoulder. "It's just that your remind me of my younger sister. I cared about her very much, but we've fallen out of contact. She moved to America five years ago with her husband." Bethany nodded.

"There are men out there who want to exploit girls like me," Bethany began. "I just want to make sure I'm not going from one bad situation to another. I don't mean to offend you, mum always taught Claire and me that we had to be careful and avoid men like my father. It was too late for her when she found out what his real character was like."

"I promise I'll look after you like an older brother," John told her. She looked him in the eyes and saw he was telling the truth.

"Thank you," she whispered, hugging him.

On Thursday, John dropped Bethany off at the police station. They had some questions for her about the Thursday night a week before when her father had abducted her. It only took an hour for them to finish interviewing her.

"Would you like to speak to your father?" Cambridge asked her. "This may be the last time you see him out side of prison for many years." Bethany considered it.

"I don't want him to be able to touch me," she said.

"I'll go organise it," Cambridge said, heading off down another corridor as Bethany sat down in the police station cafeteria.

"Are you Bethany Peterson?" a man who'd come up behind her asked. Bethany jumped in surprise.

"Yes," she replied, wary of the stranger who sat down opposite her. There weren't any other officers there yet. It was only 11:15.

"I'm Assistant Chief Commissioner Fisher," he said. The name Fisher rang a bell. "I over saw the investigation into your mother's disappearance." Bethany drew in a breath, recognising him from when he'd visited their house just after her mother had gone. "This is strictly off the record, and don't tell Crabbe about it," he warned her, shuffling uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm sorry I stopped the investigation." Bethany didn't know how to respond.

"Did you have on record the times she'd come to the police to report him attacking us?" she asked at last.

"Yes," Fisher said shamefully. "Your father insisted that your mother was mentally unstable and had tried to run away during breakdowns before."

"And you believed him," Bethany said it as a statement, not a question, but Fisher answered it anyway.

"Yes," his cheeks started going pink.

"Do you believe him now he's saying I'm mentally unstable?" she asked him. Fisher sat back, breathing deeply as he thought.

"I did," he admitted.

"What changed your mind?" she inquired. His eyes went to her fading black eye and glanced briefly at the stitches sticking out from the side of her head.

"PC Cambridge showed me the photographs of your injuries," he leaned forwards, ducking his head.

"You could've prevented all of this and my sister's death if you'd investigated my mother's disappearance thoroughly," Bethany said. She wasn't angry, but she really didn't like Fisher.

"I'm sorry," Fisher repeated. Just then Cambridge came in behind him.

"Sir," she said, standing next to his chair. Fisher stood and left the room. "Your father is waiting for you." Cambridge told Bethany. "He's handcuffed and secured down, he can't touch you."

"Okay," Bethany followed Cambridge through the maze of corridors to the room where her father sat slumped in a chair. At first Bethany couldn't recognise him in the bright orange clothes. He lifted his head when she entered the room. Madness danced in his eyes, madness he'd only shown to his wife and daughters. His wrists were handcuffed and secured to the desk in front of him.

"The conversation will be recorded," Cambridge whispered in Bethany's ear. "See if you can make him talk about your mother's disappearance." Bethany nodded as Cambridge left the room. The door shut with a click. Now Bethany and Peterson were alone.

"This is your fault, stupid girl," he growled at her, his eyes flashing in anger.

"Liar," she stood opposite him, back from the table. "There isn't any reason you can give me that would make what you've done any less disgusting." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Beth, sweet heart," he cocked his head to one side, whites showing around his eyes. "Everything I did was for your good."

"Murderer," she stared him out. He twitched at the word.

"What did you call me?" he tilted his head back. Bethany clenched her hands into fists.

"That's what your are, isn't it," Bethany continued to stare into his eyes. "It was because of you Claire got into drugs and alcohol, it was never school. She knew something and you didn't want her telling anyone, am I right? I am right. You started supplying her with drugs and booze because she wanted to forget what you'd done. Then when you were plastered off your face you came home and started yelling at her. So she left. She left you like mum wanted to seven years ago. But she didn't get far. She'd been drinking as well, enough that she couldn't drive. You murdered her."

"Never," he snarled.

"What had she seen, what did she know that she wanted to forget?" Bethany felt like shouting at him, hitting him with all her might, throwing the chair in front of her at his head. But she didn't. She knew that he deserved so much worse.

"Bethany, you will not speak to me like that, I am your-" he started shouting.

"Father?" Bethany interjected. "You don't know the meaning of the word." She stood tall and proudly. "No father would attempt to murder his own daughter, cause the death of the other and kill his own wife." He kept quiet. "That's what Claire knew, isn't it. She knew you'd killed mum. Mum would've told her if she was seeing a divorce lawyer. She was going to leave you and take us with her because she would never abandon Claire or me. But you couldn't take it, you couldn't bear the thought of her leaving you so you killed her instead. I wish I'm wrong, but I'm not am I." Jeremy started laughing. In the observation room, Cambridge got ready to go back in.

"Stupid little whore," Jeremy giggled. "I should've killed you when I had the chance. Strangled you with my bare hands." He stopped laughing abruptly.

"Is that how you killed your wife?" Bethany asked him. Jeremy shook his head, grinning. "It's just you and me here, so you may as well tell me. What did you do to my mother?" Jeremy froze, his eyes went glassy.

"I'll die in gaol anyway, what's the point," he tried to turn away but his hands being attached to the table stopped him.

"I don't think you ever loved me," Bethany said coldly. "I don't think you loved any of us. Just your arrogant, egotistical, mad, murderous self."

"I did love her," he frowned, arguing.

"Then prove it and tell me what you did, where she is," Bethany ordered him. Peterson swallowed and froze, ordering his thoughts.

"I strangled her when she said she was leaving and taking you and Chloe with her," he began, his voice sounding distant as though another being was speaking through him. "I killed her. My own wife, and I killed her." He rested his head on the table. "She's buried in Sherwood Park, beneath the massive oak tree. She loved it there, hearing the stream bubble a few metres away. We took shelter there in the rain together. That was how we met. It only seemed fitting that it should be where I buried her." Crabbe held his breath in the observation room as Cambridge went to open the door.

"You are no father of mine," Bethany said between gritted teeth as Cambridge opened the door. She strode out past her and collapsed against the wall in the corridor, falling to the floor in a sobbing heap. Crabbe briskly came out of the observation room as Cambridge gave orders to other officers waiting.

"Bethany, are you alright?" Crabbe asked her as she sobbed, her body shaking. She continued to cry.

"I never want to speak to him again," she said between sobs. Cambridge knelt down, putting a hand on her arm.

"You did well," Cambridge assured her. "We can charge him with your mother's murder."

"Many charges of assault, murder, accessory to murder and attempted murder, he'll be in jail for over fifty years," Crabbe told her.

"He is a monster," Bethany finally sobbed, burying her head in her arms, exhausted. "I want to go home." She turned to Crabbe. He nodded. Cambridge helped her up.

They sat in silence as Crabbe drove her to John's apartment. Parking in the street, they could see a team of officers searching the park.

"Is that Sherwood Park?" Bethany asked John as he let her into the apartment.

"Yes, didn't you know?" he seemed a little stunned. She looked down at the floor as Crabbe entered after her. "Bethany, are you okay? You look like you've been crying." Bethany swallowed.

"I have," she looked over at Crabbe.

"You rest, I'll explain it to him," Crabbe said to her. Bethany went with out another word to her room. She had her last photograph of her mother with Claire and her besides her bed. She held it up and looked out the window as the police continued to search the park. In the photo they were sitting in front of a large oak tree.

The background noises of Crabbe and John talking faded away in her awareness. She watched the police officers as they all grouped around one tree. She spotted someone she thought could be Cambridge in the group, walking over to a car. A white tent was put up around the base of the oldest oak in the park. A few minutes later, John's phone rang.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver.

"John, is my husband there?" Margaret asked on the other end of the line.

"Yes, I'll just get him for you," John said then held the receiver away from his head. "Mr Crabbe, it's your wife." Henry accepted the phone.

"Cambridge just called. She says they think they've found Bethany's mother," she informed her husband.

"Thank you Margaret," he said. Bethany appeared in the doorway of her room as he lowered the phone.

"They've found her," she stated. Henry nodded. Bethany put her hand over her face, tears welling in her eyes again. John strode over to her and wrapped his arms around her protectively.

"I don't think I should leave her here on her own," John said to Crabbe after Bethany returned to cry privately in her room.

"You're right, we don't know what she'll do," Crabbe agreed with him. "I'll go tell Cambridge to send someone to keep an eye on her until you come back. We need to at the restaurant, and I don't think Bethany is in a state to go anywhere." He left the flat and headed over the road to where the police cars were. It didn't take him long to locate Cambridge.

"We've compared the DNA of the deceased to Bethany's," Cambridge reported to him. "It's definitely Diana Peterson sir."

"Cambridge, send someone up to John's apartment to keep an eye on her. I don't think she should be left alone, not tonight," he informed her. Cambridge nodded.

"I'll come myself," she said. Following Henry back to the apartment, she started talking again. "Do you think this can bring her closure, now she knows what happened to her mother?"

"I hope so, Cambridge, I hope so," Crabbe told her. "Her father has savagely destroyed her life. Who knows if she can recover from that."

"Why do you think her disappearance wasn't investigate further?" Cambridge pressed the question.

"What have you heard Cambridge?" Henry stopped walking and asked her. Cambridge halted.

"I saw Assistant Chief Commissioner Fisher talking with her in the cafeteria earlier today sir, I believe he had something to do with it," Cambridge admitted.

"He was the head officer on the case, I wasn't involved so I'm afraid I can't help you," Crabbe informed her. "Though I'd be more than glad to put the question to Fisher when I see him tomorrow."

"Thank you sir," they started walking again, going up to John's apartment.

Jeremy Peterson's trial was delayed another week after his wife's body was found. Bethany answered the questions of the judge before her father's lawyer came forward.

"My client would like to ask for the court to be adjourned until Miss Bethany Peterson has had a full psychiatric assessment," he spoke poshly, spectacles sitting on the edge of his nose.

"Denied," the judge raised an eyebrow at Mr Peterson who sat in the dock, staring at the wall. "Please ask any questions you have for this witness."

"None on the grounds that she has been diagnosed as mentally unstable, frequently harmed herself and lied about the cause of the injuries," he turned up his nose at her. She sat patiently in the witness box, looking up at the judge.

"Since you have no questions for this witness, Miss Bethany Peterson, please return to your seat," Bethany stood and left the witness box, returning to her seat between Mr Crabbe and John. "What evidence do you have that she was inflicting her own injuries?" the judge asked the lawyer.

"The photographs that were presented previously of injuries she'd given herself," the lawyer explained.

"Those injuries have already been established to have been caused by Jeremy Peterson assaulting Bethany Peterson," the judge informed him.

"Then I ask for more evidence that it was indeed assault and not self harm," the lawyer demanded. The prosecuting lawyer stood.

"If I may present evidence, your honour?" she asked the judge.

"You may proceed," the judge nodded. She held up the box that Tommy had given to Mr Crabbe.

"We have audio tapes of their arguments from the last three months," a clerk came forward with a cassette player. "One of the recordings is of the Monday that Mr Jeremy Peterson threatened to kill his daughter Bethany Peterson, frightening her into running away."

"Why was this evidence not presented earlier?" the posh male lawyer asked her.

"The tapes were not played at the commencement of the trial at the request of Miss Bethany Peterson because it causes her much distress to listen to them," the lawyer turned to gesture to Bethany who had gone pale and clammy at the mention of the recordings.

"Clerk, please play the recording from the Monday night in question," the judge ordered then turned to look at Bethany. She'd shut her eyes and bit her lip. A sick feeling was rising up in her stomach. "Please remain in the court room while the recording plays, Miss Peterson." The judge requested. As the recording started to play, everyone in the room could hear Jeremy Peterson shouting at his daughter and the noises as he struck her. Bethany curled up, covering her ears with her hands as it went on. John put his arms around her shoulders. Henry placed one large hand on her back. By the end of it, Bethany was shaking with fear.

"Is it over?" Bethany whispered.

"Yes, it's alright," John whispered back, helping her to sit up. Bethany turned her face to rest on his chest. "I'm here, it's alright." He whispered to her, rubbing her arm. A row behind them, Tommy Taylor blew his nose. The posh lawyer had a short whispered conversation with his colleagues.

"Our client pleads guilty to the assault of Bethany Peterson on Monday the twenty seventh of January this year," he said before sitting down once more.

"Then we shall continue onto the charge of attempting to murder Miss Bethany Peterson," the judge said, shuffling some papers. The jury all shifted in their seats. "Detective Inspector Crabbe, enter the witness box."

Bethany stared at the floorboards as the trial continued. Both lawyers asked Crabbe questions. Then it was Tommy's turn. The trial continued until it convened for lunch. Bethany sat with Crabbe at the back of the canteen.

"Will they be asking me to speak again?" Bethany spoke in little more than a whisper.

"It's possible," Crabbe admitted, searching in his bag for some of the food he'd packed that morning. He offered some to Bethany.

"Sorry, I don't feel very hungry right now," she spoke softly, her face going a tinge green. Crabbe nodded, tucking into his small feast himself.

The case continued well into the afternoon, with many police officers retelling their reports. Cambridge presented the evidence of the X-rays and photographs of Bethany's injuries. Eventually they called Bethany up again to the witness box.

"Miss Peterson, I have here the statement you gave to the police regarding your father's abducting, abusing and attempting to murder you," the lawyer held up the relevant sheet of paper. "Do you have anything you wish to add or omit from this testimony?"

"No sir," Bethany said obediently. The lawyer proceeded to read out her statement for the benefit of the jury.

"Excuse me, Miss Peterson, could you please turn your head to show the jury and the accused the stitches above where the metal plate has been implanted to repair your skull?" the lawyer asked after speaking for a few minutes. Bethany obliged, turning her head and pulling her hair out of the way. She winched when he came up, putting his cold fingers on her scalp. "Does it hurt?" he inquired.

"Yes," Bethany said through gritted teeth, returning to her normal sitting position. Everything blurred in Bethany's mind as she was sent back to her seat, the case continuing. By the end, her father had the chance to give a statement before the court. She kept her eyes focused on the floorboards as he stood.

"I loved my wife and I loved my kids," he said, putting on a pitiful face for the jury. "They all suffered, in here." He jabbed his finger at his temple, handcuffs clinking. "I'd hoped Bethany would grow out of it, that it was just a phase she was going through after her mother left us."

"Objection your honour," the prosecuting lawyer stood.

"Sustained, what do you have to say?" the judge inquired.

"The accused is also being charged with the murder of Diana Peterson and is referring to the crime as her leaving them," he glared across the courtroom at Jeremy's lawyers.

"Noted, please continue Mr Peterson," the judge ordered.

"I'd never hurt my daughter," he continued in his sad fiction. "I love her." Bethany let out a soft sob.

"Objection your honour," the lawyer said again, looking up at where Bethany sat.

"What is it?" the judge asked, starting to get frustrated.

"This court has been shown no evidence of Mr Peterson showing any compassion or love for his daughter Bethany Peterson," he demanded.

"Very well," the judge turned to Mr Peterson. "Do you sir, have any evidence that you love your daughter?" Mr Peterson blinked at him for a moment. He turned to see where Bethany was in the crowd. She glanced up, a few tears streaking down her cheeks.

"Tell them," he said softly, yet still audible for the entire courtroom to hear. Bethany sat stone frozen. "Tell them," he repeated, his hands clenching into fists. "Come on Beth," his knuckles began to go white. She sat there, fear glittering in her eyes. "Dammit Bethany, tell them!" he roared at last, slamming his fists onto the bench. She let out a small yelp, trying to hide behind John's shoulder.

"That will be all, Mr Peterson," the judge told him. "Return to your seat." He stared across the courtroom at Bethany. "Mr Peterson, return to your seat." Still nothing. "I will charge you with contempt in court if you do not return to you seat Mr Jeremy Peterson." One of his lawyers approached the witness box, opening the gate and escorting him out, a hand on his elbow.

Getting back to the restaurant just in time, Bethany set herself up with a chopping board and bowl of carrots. The sounds of everyone bustling around her were strangely comforting compared to the stark quiet of the courtroom. Crabbe and Steve worked their way around the stovetop, talking continuously as they went. She'd made herself comfortable in a small corner of the room where she wouldn't get in the way.

"How are those carrots coming along?" Crabbe barked above the simmering of pans and the crackling of meats. He didn't bark unkindly, it was a purposeful, well meaning bark.

"Done," Bethany announced, presenting him with the bowl, now full of peeled and cut carrots. His eyes twinkled as he accepted the bowl, passing her another full of potatoes, a peeler sitting on top. "Right away," Bethany promised, returning to her corner. Half listening to Crabbe and Steve's conversation she could tell when they needed something. Eventually the rush started petering off and she was put to wash up duty. The sudsy sink full of plates, glasses, cutlery and other bits and pieces, Bethany set to work, determined to make the Pie in the Sky the cleanest restaurant England ever knew.

By the end of the night Bethany was nearly asleep on her feet as she dried the last plate. Linda put a hand on her shoulder, startling her. She gently took the plate and towel from her hands, finishing the job herself.

"You're plum tuckered!" Linda exclaimed with a slight laugh while Bethany hid a yawn.

"Tomorrow we julienne some zucchini," Crabbe grinned at her. Bethany smiled, grateful for the help he'd been. John swept through the doors theatrically, folding his towel and placing it on the bench delicately. "A good night?"

"I'd say so," John smiled brightly, not showing a hint of how tired he surely must've felt. "Table six said the carrots tasted particularly good tonight."

"Henderson will be pleased," Henry mused. Bethany found it harder to stifle her next yawn. "John, I think it's time you got her home," he said kindly. Bethany looked up, blinking. John put a tender arm around her shoulders, providing a support for her weary neck.

"Good night," Bethany smiled sleepily, guided by John out the door.

"Thanks for helping," Linda told Crabbe tenderly, kissing him on the cheek.

"Bethany deserves a chance to live her life without fear of her father," Crabbe agreed. "She's a good girl."

"And very good at peeling potatoes," Steve grinned.

The next few days of the trial Bethany wasn't needed for, so she spent the day with either John at the flat, or Crabbe or Steve at the restaurant learning a new cooking technique.

"What's this?" Margaret asked as she walked in on one of such sessions. Crabbe was seated contently watching while Steve instructed Bethany on the finer points of steak and kidney pie.

"Margaret, come and join us," Crabbe invited her, remaining in his chair. "Steve is teaching Bethany how to make a proper steak and kidney pie."

"You say it like there's a wrong way," Margaret teased him as Bethany stirred the meat marinating in the sauce. It's aromas filled the kitchen making everyone's stomachs join chorus in a growl.

"Lunch time," Crabbe decreed as they brought the meat off the low heat. The phone ringed, interrupting them. He answered it as Bethany placed the lid on the pot. "Righto," Crabbe said when the conversation was over and he hung up. His face was more drawn, somehow shadowed.

"Henry?" Margaret asked him perceptively, instantly knowing something was wrong.

"The jury have come to a unanimous agreement already," Crabbe told her. "You're expected there in an hour to hear their verdict."

"But they haven't questioned me..." Bethany's voice trailed off. Her confusion was clearly read on her face.

"He's already presented his defence against the evidence," Crabbe explained. "This is most unusual." He added. A pit of worry gnawed at Bethany's insides.

Sitting in the courtroom, Bethany couldn't help but fidget. She wrung her hands constantly. Only when he could take it no more, Henry reached over, placing one large hand over her two small ones. She turned up to face him, taking a deep breath.

"You'll be alright," John assured her from her other side. "We're here for you." Bethany nodded, looking down at her hands as Henry squeezed them gently. All the soft whisperings stopped as the door opened for the judge to enter. He strode in as Bethany looked on with wide eyes. Her father entered after him, dazed and handcuffed. He almost looked pitiable in the bright orange jumpsuit. Almost. No one in that room had any pity for him though.

"The jury have come to a verdict," a clerk announced. A woman from the jury stood - their representative. "How do you find Mr Jeremy Peterson on the charges of extensively physically abusing his youngest daughter, Bethany Peterson?" Bethany held her breath.

"Guilty," the woman announced. Bethany quickly took in a breath. She looked down to the seats where Cambridge was.

"On the charge of physically abusing his eldest daughter, Claire Peterson?" the clerk continued.

"Guilty," the woman responded.

"On the charges of being instrumental in the death of Claire Peterson?" the clerk continued.

"Guilty," the woman answered. Cambridge looked over her shoulder at Bethany and nodded in her direction. Bethany looked back up at the proceedings.

"On the charge of attempting to murder Bethany Peterson?"

"Guilty." Bethany looked at her father. His head was hung low.

"On the charge of murdering his wife, Dianna Peterson?"

"Guilty." The words echoed through the courtroom.

"This court will reconvene in an hour for the sentencing of Jeremy Peterson," the judge hit his mallet. Bethany closed her eyes as they brimmed with tears. Henry put a gentle hand on her shoulder as her eyes spilled over. She leaned forward, putting her face in her hands as she sobbed quietly.

"What's the special tonight?" Bethany asked quietly, wanting to distract herself from her nerves. Waiting for the sentencing, they'd gone outside the courtroom and were gathered in a small corridor nearby.

"I was thinking salmon," Henry said.

"That sounds nice," Bethany agreed.

"Of course, with the cold weather I thought minestrone soup would do better," Henry admitted.

"Plenty of vegetable to chop and peel for that," Bethany nodded.

"You don't have to be there for the sentencing," he changed the topic suddenly.

"I'll be there," Bethany said icily. "I want to see the look on his face when he realises he's lost."

They filed back into the courtroom, the judge and other officials entering. Everyone sat in silence as the charges were read out once more.

"For the murder of Diane Peterson, 20 years," the judge ordered. Bethany stared at her father in the docks. "His role in the death of Claire Peterson, 7 years. Attempting to murder Bethany Peterson, 9 years. Physically abusing Bethany Peterson on several documented occasions, 12 years." He finished by saying that parole would not be available until he'd served 30 years of his sentence. The charges were made back to back, meaning he could be locked away for as long as 48 years.

In the docks, Jeremy Peterson's face fell. Bethany watched as he was led away to be processed and taken to jail.

"It's all over now," she breathed once he'd gone from sight. "It's all over."