by Tess Stimson
And Marc, of course.
Without him, we no longer have anyone with marketing expertise on the board. One of our greatest strengths – our close-knit loyalty – has become our biggest weakness. With the exception of Jon Vermeulen, who continues to manage things on the ground in Florida, the rest of us are well-meaning amateurs, not fundraising professionals. The Foundation has been run too much from the heart, not the head, which is why we’re almost bankrupt.
Paul Harding, our treasurer and the man who once mistook one little girl in a pink dress for another, has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘That money was spent over a two-year period,’ he says.
Everyone shifts uncomfortably. We’re all aware how expensive the search for my daughter has been in the abstract, but seeing the numbers in black and white makes disturbing reading.
‘This man, Simon Green. He’s bleeding you dry,’ Jack says. ‘Who hired him?’
‘Marc Chapman,’ Paul says. There’s an awkward silence.
Jack sighs and tosses the ledger of accounts across the table. ‘Well, this can’t go on,’ he says. ‘The Foundation’s barely solvent. If nothing else, Green is going to have a comfortable retirement.’
‘The man’s a crook,’ Jon says, his South African accent more pronounced than ever. He’s flown over especially for this board meeting, and he and Jack are clearly on the same page. ‘Half a million quid, and all we have to show for it are shots from Google Earth and some photos of a travelling salesman.’
‘The salesman was a legitimate line of inquiry at the time,’ Paul protests. ‘Berkeley International were only able to eliminate him after three months of surveillance—’
Jon snorts. ‘Three months of fat fees.’
I don’t believe Simon Green is a crook, but we can’t keep spending money the way we have been. All the surveillance, the voice analyses, the profiling, the deep background checks – we just don’t have the money for it. People have lost interest in Lottie. It’s been too long since she vanished and, without a single hard lead to show for the millions spent on the search for her, people have stopped giving. We need to pivot to the Foundation’s core mission and focus on other missing children if we want to attract new donors.
‘Re-litigating the past isn’t going to help,’ I say, before the meeting descends into recrimination. ‘We’re here to talk about how we fund the Foundation going forward, not just the search for Lottie. That’s why Jack’s here.’
Jack rakes a hand through his thick, black hair. A shambling bear of a man in his mid-thirties, he’s not particularly good-looking, but there’s something oddly compelling about him. He commands the room without saying a word. He has a sartorial style that could best be described as unmade-bed: his jackets are usually rumpled and flapping open, his shirts spilling out, his collars awry, his ties rarely on an even keel. But he deploys his dishevelment in strategic ways, seemingly too passionate about the subject at hand to iron. In an increasingly airbrushed and filtered world, his style telegraphs unvarnished truth-telling and reality. It holds the allure of the anti-spin. I’m not surprised he’s tipped for the front bench in the next reshuffle.
‘As Alex says, it’s not just about Lottie any more,’ Jack says. ‘You can’t justify spending this kind of money on one kid – sorry, Alex – when there are so many other children out there who need help.’
‘But once the Yard inquiry gets more funding—’ Paul begins.
‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Jack interrupts. ‘You’re not getting any support from Number 10. You’ve been treading on too many toes.’
Paul bristles. Out of all of us, he’s given the most time to the nuts-and-bolts running of the Foundation. ‘I don’t see what Downing Street has to do with it,’ he says.
‘Yeah, that’s obvious.’ Jack tips back his chair, his hands tucked behind his head. ‘Look, mate, every time you remind the Americans they lost a British citizen on their watch, the “special relationship” takes another hit. Post-Brexit, we need them more than they need us.’
‘We have precedent on our side. The McCann inquiry—’
‘She disappeared from Portugal. The US is a different kettle of marine life. You’re comparing apples and oranges.’
‘Jack and I have a meeting with the Foreign Office this afternoon,’ I say, bringing the meeting to a close. ‘We’ll know a lot more after that.’
As we leave the boardroom, Jack falls into step beside me. ‘I don’t think I’m going to win any popularity contests with your friends,’ he says.
‘They’ll get over it,’ I say. ‘You’re not telling us anything we don’t all know. Donations from the public aren’t going to cut it. We need that government funding.’
‘Like I said, don’t get your hopes up.’
We reach the street. ‘Do you want to get a cab?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine with the Tube.’
We’re only two minutes’ walk from the Stockwell station, so I have no plausible reason to object. As Jack swipes his Oyster card, I discreetly swallow a Valium pill. The Tube makes me claustrophobic: I’ve had several terrifying panic attacks while trapped below ground. The first time it happened, I had no idea what it was. It felt like I was being held underwater with no way of coming up for air. I was convinced I was dying. I was embarrassed and ashamed when the doctor told me it was ‘just’ a panic attack.
I’m thankful for the warm bubble created by the Valium as Jack and I find ourselves crammed halfway down the carriage, hemmed in by tourists and teenagers. He has to duck his head to avoid grazing it on the curve of the train roof.
We change to the Circle Line at Victoria and the train is less busy. I pick up a discarded Metro newspaper to make space to sit down and glance idly through the window as a train going in the other direction pulls into the platform opposite. My eye is caught by a young girl with bright blonde hair, sitting with her back to me in the other train. She’s holding the hand of a woman standing next to her and, even through my Valium fog, my heart twists. In another life, I think, that could be Lottie and me.
I can’t see the woman’s face, but I notice the logo on her fleece: South Weald House. Small world. Mum and Dad used to take Harriet and me there on holiday every year when we were kids.
The doors close. Slowly, the two trains start to move in opposite directions. As we pull away, I see the child’s face for the first time.
For a brief moment, all that separates me from my daughter are two panes of glass.
chapter 36
It’s easier to avoid CCTV cameras than you think.
You don’t have to go down the rabbit hole of conspiracy-theorist hacks you’ll find online: laser pointers, frequency jamming, baseball hats that block electromagnetic fields using Faraday cages.
You just have to know where to look.
There are CCTV maps of most big cities on the internet these days. They’ll tell you which street corners to avoid, what cameras are dummies, how to move unobtrusively from one blind spot to another.
But you can’t dodge them all. And I’ve found the best way to avoid being noticed in the first place is to surround yourself with people who look like you.
When I first took the child, I made the mistake of hiding out in a sketchy part of town, where I thought no one would ask questions. But I quickly realised we stuck out like sore thumbs amid the cockle-pickers and asylum seekers, with our clean hair and white faces. As soon as we opened our mouths, we betrayed our middle-class, Boden origins.
We need to lose ourselves among our own kind if we want to blend in.
The girl is thrilled to leave the confines of the damp B&B. We drive north and I check into a hotel in a well-heeled part of the city, where we look like everyone else.
I can’t keep her cooped up inside all the time, not if I want things to work between us. It’s a risk to take her out in public, but I count on the fact we look like we belong together. She holds my hand and bounces excitedly in her seat on the train, eager for our next adventure.
Middle-class, respectable.
The sort of place where bad things only happen behind closed doors.
chapter 37
alex
The sudden deceleration when I pull the emergency lever flings people against each other. Shouts and cries of alarm echo up and down the carriage.
‘What the fuck?’ Jack exclaims.
The train screeches to a halt, half in and half out of the tunnel, leaving our carriage outside, still alongside the platform. I hammer on the train doors as people on the platform outside rush towards the exits, no doubt fearing a terrorist attack.
‘Open the doors!’ I shout. ‘Open the doors!’
‘Alex, what the hell?’
‘I just saw Lottie on the other train!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It was her, Jack!’
He doesn’t waste time questioning me any further. He already has his phone out to call for help, and then curses as he realises he has no signal.
A female Tube employee stares at us from the platform, frozen in apparent indecision. Jack raps sharply on the glass, and flashes his House of Commons ID.
‘Open the doors!’ he demands.
The woman backs away. An alarm is sounding, an air-raid-style blaring. It contributes to the rising sense of panic around us. A group of young men barge their way through from the next carriage, which is in the tunnel, and barrel down the compartment towards us, shoving people out of the way. Voices are raised in protest, and a baby starts to cry.
‘There must be an emergency release for the doors,’ I cry, hitting every button I can see. ‘What if there was a fire?’
One of the young men grabs my arm. ‘What the fuck did you pull that alarm for, you stupid bitch?’
‘Give it a rest, mate,’ Jack says. His tone is light, but his voice carries an unmistakable air of menace.
‘Yeah, well,’ the yob mutters, releasing me. ‘Some of us got places to be.’
I don’t care that people are shouting at me, or that I’m being filmed on several mobile phones. My daughter is slipping through my fingers.
In three minutes, Lottie will be at the next Tube station. In six, she could be on a bus or in a taxi; in ten, who knows where. The ripple of possibilities is widening with every second that passes.
Panic chokes me: not again. I’m back on that beach in Florida and no matter how hard I try to run after my daughter, I’m caught in quicksand, my legs moving in slow motion.
My baby was here and now I’m losing her again.
A public announcement cuts through the hubbub. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like there may be a short delay,’ the announcer says. ‘We’re doing our best to get you on your way as soon as possible. Please move down through the carriages and exit the train via the platform. If the person who pulled the emergency alarm could make themselves known to a member of staff, we’ll do our best to assist you.’
The female Tube employee is talking to two armed British Transport Police officers. There’s a sudden hiss and the doors to the carriages still outside the tunnel open.
People spill out of the train, surging towards the exits. Frustration wraps itself around my lungs, my panic mounting. Lottie was almost close enough for me to touch.
I have to catch her, before it’s too late—
Jack puts a gently detaining hand on my elbow. ‘No point trying to chase her ourselves, Alex,’ he says. ‘We need to let the police handle this.’
I can’t bear it, the idea of waiting, yet again, for someone else to find my child. The urge to run after Lottie is almost overwhelming. But he’s right. We need the other train stopped and searched, the stations along the District and Circle Line locked down. It may already be too late. They may have changed lines, or exited the Tube system altogether.
Jack flashes his ID again and the police listen to him when he explains who I am and what we need.
We’re escorted to a control room somewhere in the bowels of Victoria station, and I’m asked the same questions again by a more senior officer:
Are you sure it was your daughter?
Did you recognise the woman with her?
Did either of them see you?
It’s been two years – are you sure?
‘Two years is a long time in a young child’s life,’ the officer reminds me. ‘They change so quickly at that age. By your own admission, you only saw her face for a few seconds and at an angle—’
‘It was Lottie,’ I insist.
Her face was thinner, and older, of course. But I know my own daughter. I recognised her in the truculent tilt of her head, the combative set of her jaw. Whatever has happened to her in the two years she’s been missing, she is still Lottie.
‘Is there anything else you can remember, Alex?’ Jack asks. ‘Anything you can tell us about the woman, beyond what she was wearing?’
‘I told you. I didn’t see her face.’
‘You said she was holding Lottie’s hand. Can you remember if she was wearing any jewellery? Was she white or Black?’
I close my eyes, summoning the brief snapshot of the woman to my mind’s eye. I see again Lottie’s hand clasped in hers, the slender silver ring on the woman’s index finger.
‘White. And young,’ I add. ‘Her skin was smooth. I’d say she was under thirty.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I couldn’t even tell you what colour her hair was,’ I say, frustration shading my tone. ‘She was standing up; I could only see her from the chest down—’
I break off as it comes back to me.
The fleece.
South Weald House.
The officer relays the information to someone on the other end of a phone line.
‘I can’t just sit here,’ I say. ‘I can’t just wait.’
‘We’ve got people on all the exits between here and Earl’s Court,’ the officer says. ‘We’ve had Lottie’s picture circulated to all transport staff. We’re pulling CCTV from the entire network system and putting it through facial recognition. If she’s out there, we’ll find her.’
She was out there before, I think. She’s been out there for seven hundred and thirty-three days, and none of you has found her yet.
I stand up. ‘We need to get to our meeting at the Foreign Office,’ I tell Jack.
‘What, now?’
‘I can’t do anything here,’ I say. ‘You’re the one who said there’s no point trying to chase Lottie ourselves. The police can do that. We need to make sure Downing Street doesn’t throw up any roadblocks when the Met applies for more funding. I’m not failing my daughter again, Jack.’
‘Alex—’
‘Lottie’s alive,’ I say. ‘She’s not buried in a shallow grave or locked in a basement somewhere. I’m not giving up on her again!’
‘I’m not asking you to give up on her,’ Jack says.
Something in his tone makes me pause. He ushers me into the hallway, out of earshot of the police.
‘There are … things I can do,’ he says. ‘People I can talk to. But first, Alex, I need to know exactly how far you’re willing to let me go.’
comments
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567 comments
ben_n_jerry, Vermont, USA
Two years nothing and then 1 wk before they pull the plug on the inquiry the child ‘magically’ appears in London. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
Fastlane, Cardiff, UK
Where on earth did they get 2 million pounds from? it’s a public fund it should be accounted for to the public. Clearly the mother has mental health issues and that MP is just using her to boost his career.
Fruit_Gum, Leicestershire, UK
What about the tattoo guy what happened to him ??
Tootsweet, London, UK
Why not just call it what it is: another sunny holida
y fund for the bobbies.
ErikTheViking, Luton, UK
I agree with the pp what happened to the tattoo man? how can she of seen Lotty in London I thought he fled the country? it doesn’t make sense.
ThisMinute, Rhode Island, US
It was never proved it was him, innocent till proved guilty.
ErikTheViking, Luton, UK
Innocent ppl don’t run away.
Mandz, London, UK
As sad as it is and I hope for a happy ending, too long has passed. The mother is seeing things there’s no way it was her daughter. I feel sorry for her but why would her daughter be in London when she disappeared 4000 miles away?
Woody_802, Dorset, UK
I reckon it’s the sister.
two years and nine days missing
chapter 38
alex
South Weald House closed thirteen years ago, long before Lottie disappeared.
The woman who was with her couldn’t be a current member of staff there. And when the police finally track down a retired employee, they discover there was never a uniform of any kind. Whatever I thought I saw embroidered on the woman’s sweatshirt, it couldn’t have been their logo.
Another dead end.
I want to cry with frustration. How can we have come so close to finding Lottie, closer than at any point since she disappeared, and be back where we started?
For two years, there have been mythical sightings of my daughter that we can never pin down. We don’t have a single verifiable piece of evidence to prove she didn’t vanish from that beach in a puff of smoke. And now we finally have a solid fact, one thing we know for sure: Lottie was here, in London, just seven days ago. We should be drowning in new leads, overwhelmed with information to follow up. And we have nothing.
