by Tess Stimson
It’s clear the woman’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown. And Quinn owes her. If she’d answered her phone when Alex called instead of going on a six-day bender, she might’ve been able to talk her off the ledge. At the very least, she’d have persuaded Alex to get hold of a DNA sample from the girl she was so sure was her daughter and wait for the results before taking the law into her own hands. Like it or not, she feels responsible for what happened. The two of them are in this together.
Quinn has skin in this game.
She spends the evening poring over every photo and video clip submitted by wedding guests and tourists to the Florida police department when they made their first appeal for help. She didn’t exactly come by them legally, exploiting a source within the police investigation, but in her view the ends justify the means.
She’s no idea if the mystery woman Lottie was seen talking to has been captured in any of the photos, but she won’t know till she’s been through every frame to check. The woman isn’t one of the wedding guests; she’s already established that. But the beach was open to the public during the wedding ceremony and there are any number of tourists and other hotel guests hovering in the background of photos, enjoying the spectacle from the water’s edge. Perhaps she’ll get lucky.
Perhaps not.
By 3 a.m., she’s been at it for sixteen hours. Her head aches and her back is sore.
She’s been through thousands of photos and found nothing.
She goes into the kitchen and grinds yet more beans, wondering if she’s reached the end of the line. She’ll loop the Met investigation team in tomorrow and let them know what she’s learned but, without a photo of the woman, she’s not sure what good it’ll do.
The trail is over two years old and this is likely to be another red herring, anyway. The woman’s probably got nothing to do with the inquiry. Just a sweet old grandma who stopped to tell a bridesmaid how pretty she was and moved on.
Quinn takes her coffee back to her computer and keeps looking.
two years and forty-two days missing
chapter 72
alex
‘I am telling you the truth,’ Harriet says.
My sister is sitting opposite me in Mum’s deckchair, across from the old stone bench. The sag of the chair is filled with wet leaves, and the bench is cold, but neither of us care. This isn’t a conversation we can have in the house, where Dad might overhear us.
‘Why should I believe you?’ I say.
‘Because it’s true. I don’t know what else to say.’ She spreads her hands. ‘I’ve told you everything, now. Why would I lie?’
‘Why did you lie before?’ I say. ‘Not telling any of us you’d left Mungo is one thing. I think it’s crap, but OK. Maybe you really didn’t want to upset Mum. But all the rest of it?’ My voice rises. ‘You’re full of shit, Harriet.’
‘Sssh,’ Harriet says. ‘We don’t want Dad to come out.’
My anger suddenly leaches away. I stand up, wrapping my cardigan more tightly around myself, staring out at the small copse of trees behind my parents’ house. Harriet and I used to play for hours on end in the woods, building dens and treehouses, swinging on the tyre Dad had hung from an old oak tree, stuffing our faces with blackberries in the autumn until we made ourselves sick.
Back then, she was my best friend.
‘Every single morning,’ I say, ‘I wake up and there’s a moment, a split second, when I think it’s all been a terrible dream. A part of me wants to stay in that moment forever, and I’m finding it harder and harder to let go of the fantasy and come back to the real world.’ I turn back to face her. ‘I just abducted a child I thought was Lottie. I kidnapped her. I’m on the edge, Harry! And you made me believe I’d imagined an entire conversation. You had me thinking I was going mad.’
She looks uncomfortable. ‘I never meant it to go this far.’
‘You gaslighted me. How could you, Harriet?’
An odd expression passes across her face. ‘I gaslighted you? I’ve spent my entire life being gaslighted by you!’
‘What does that—’
‘It means I grew up thinking I was stupid and dull, when the only thing wrong with me was that I wasn’t you! Don’t pretend you didn’t know,’ Harriet adds, fiercely. ‘You loved being the centre of Mum and Dad’s world. You sucked up all the attention and they’d got nothing left for me. I had to move to the bloody Shetlands to get out from under your shadow. The last two years of Mum’s life have been entirely about you: you and your drama, you and your tragedy. It’s all we ever talked about. Mum never once called to ask how I was doing.’
‘Jesus, Harriet! My daughter was abducted!’
‘You think I like being this person?’ she cries, leaping to her feet. ‘Most of the time, I can’t bear to look myself in the mirror!’
I’m taken aback. I know she’s always felt left out, but I had no idea she was this jealous. This angry.
‘I didn’t tell Mum and Dad I’d left Mungo because I didn’t want them to be any more disappointed in me than they already are,’ she says. ‘Poor old Harry, can’t have kids, useless job, broken marriage. There’s no sinister explanation why I didn’t tell anyone about it, Alex! I just wanted a chance to lick my wounds for a bit before I had to face everyone, that’s all. I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but then Lottie disappeared, and the right time never came. It wasn’t about you,’ she adds, bitterly. ‘It’s not always about you.’
‘But why lie about where you were that day?’ I say. ‘Why pretend you were at home with Mungo? Where were you?’
‘I don’t have to tell you everything!’
‘You do when it concerns my daughter!’
‘What kind of monster d’you think I am?’ Harriet demands. ‘Do you really think I had anything to do with what happened to Lottie? I love that little girl more than anyone!’
‘Maybe that’s the problem!’
We face each other, our breath coming in short, sharp pants that linger like smoke in the crisp air.
When Harriet speaks again, her tone is conciliatory. ‘Alex, I know you’re hurting, but this is crazy. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to begin to pull something like this off. Come on. This isn’t you—’
‘Did Aunt Julie help you? Is that how you did it?’
‘You’re sick, Alex. You need help.’
‘Don’t walk away from me!’ I shout, grabbing her arm as she turns back to the house. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Where were you when Lottie disappeared? Did you get Aunt Julie to lie for you? Is she in on it, too?’
‘You know why you’re so frantic to get her back?’ Harriet cries, shaking me off. ‘It’s not because you love her so much, Alex! It’s because you didn’t love her enough! You feel guilty because you never really wanted her! That’s what all this is about!’
I reel, as if I’ve been sucker-punched.
It’s because you didn’t love her enough.
Seven words that damn me to hell.
She’s right.
Only a sister knows exactly how to pierce your defences and strike right at your soft underbelly. I’m the reason Lottie was taken. I’m the reason my little girl is rotting in the earth somewhere or trapped in a living death in a cellar. From the moment she was born, I handed her off to Luca, to nursery, to anyone who’d take her for five minutes.
I deserved to lose her, because I didn’t want her enough.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ Harriet says, looking stricken. ‘I take it back. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Alex, please. I didn’t mean it. I know you love Lottie, of course I do.’
I turn towards the house, sickened to my stomach. The words can’t be unsaid. She can’t retract them, because they’re true. Guilt has underpinned every waking moment since the day my daughter was stolen from me: Harriet just gave it a voice. She calls to me across the lawn. ‘I was having an affair,’ she says.
I stop.
&nbs
p; ‘The day Lottie disappeared. I left Mungo because I’d met someone else,’ Harriet adds. ‘I was flying out to Cyprus to be with him.’
It totally takes me by surprise. It’s ridiculous, of course: Harriet’s as human as anyone else. And yet I never saw this coming. She may be an artist, but she’s always been such a rule-follower, so proper and conventional.
‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’ I say. ‘Why make such a secret of it?’
‘Because he’s married,’ she says, a flush stealing across her cheeks. ‘And after Luca … I know how you feel about that sort of thing. It’s over now,’ she adds quickly. ‘He went back to his wife after four months. Serves me right, I know. I moved back to the Shetlands a few months ago, but I haven’t told Mungo. I didn’t want to make it any worse for him.’
‘Oh, Harry.’
‘I should never have lied. I’m so sorry, Alex. I didn’t take Lottie, I swear—’
‘I know you didn’t. I’m sorry I ever—’
She pulls me into a hug, the first I can remember sharing with her since we were kids at South Weald House. After a moment, I wrap my arms around her and hug her back.
Only much later, on the drive back to London, does it occur to me to wonder why my aunt lied about being at the airport, too.
two years and forty-three days missing
chapter 73
quinn
Quinn finds the mystery woman.
Of course she does: she’s Quinn Wilde.
It takes her forty-two hours and so many Panamanian coffee beans she’ll never sleep again, but there she is: the dark-haired woman in the lilac dress, right at the edge of a photo taken by one of the wedding guests.
From the timestamp, it was evidently snapped at the end of the ceremony; the bride and groom are facing their guests, preparing to walk back down the sandy aisle together as man and wife. Whoever took it must’ve been sitting towards the rear of the rows of chairs because much of the foreground comprises a blur of the back of people’s heads.
But the woman in lilac is in perfect focus.
She’s standing by the shore with several other tourists who’ve stopped to watch the ceremony. Quinn almost didn’t spot her, because most of her distinctive lilac outfit is obscured by the photographer’s fat finger. But there she is, staring at the wedding party under the canopy.
At Lottie.
Quinn crops everyone else out of the photo and runs it through some enhancing software, enlarging and sharpening the image of the woman until her features are recognisable. She’s in her mid to late sixties, at a guess. Her skin has the deep caramel tan of someone who’s spent a lot of time in the sun over many years, not just a few weeks on their summer holidays, suggesting she’s either a native Floridian or lives somewhere warm, like Australia. Her dark hair is heavily greying and pulled back from her face in a ballerina bun at the nape of her neck. There’s nothing remarkable about her; had Quinn not been looking for her, she’d have been just another face, lost in the crowd.
She can see why the four witnesses confused the woman with Penny Williams. They resemble each other quite closely and they’re wearing similar dresses. If this woman’s the kidnapper, she certainly had luck on her side.
Those spidey senses of Quinn’s tingle. The woman could just be a local who was taking a sunset walk along the beach and stopped to enjoy the romantic spectacle. Complimented Lottie on her dress, perhaps, or told her not to go too near the water.
But Lottie’s abduction was on every news channel and in every newspaper for weeks afterwards. There were posters of her in supermarkets and bars all over St Pete Beach; the president even made an appeal for her safe return. Unless this woman lived under a rock, she must’ve known there was an international manhunt underway for the little flower girl she’d stopped and chatted to.
So why didn’t she come forward?
Quinn copies the enhanced image into a text message to Alex, and then hesitates. She doesn’t want to send the poor woman down a conspiracy rabbit hole again, especially since she’s got no actual proof the woman in lilac has any bearing on the case. She knows the chance Alex will recognise her is remote at best.
But if this woman is the one who took Lottie, then clearly the little girl felt comfortable enough to go with her without making a fuss. Which means Alex met her.
In a nail bar, maybe. Handing out towels by the pool.
It’s got to be worth a shot.
Quinn hits send.
chapter 74
alex
I recognise her instantly.
Of course I do. She’s family.
Lottie would’ve gone with her without protest. She’d have believed any story she was told.
I want to throw up. Lottie was probably on her way to Tampa airport before I even knew she was missing. She’d have been on the other side of the world by daybreak.
We never had any hope of finding her.
With a howl of fury that comes from the depths of my soul, I sweep everything from my desk, blind with rage. I hurl books from my shelves, rip pictures from the wall, throw anything and everything I can get my hands on, as two years of pent-up fear and grief and guilt course through me like molten lava.
I’ve spent seven hundred and seventy-four days in a circle of hell even Dante couldn’t have imagined. I’ve tormented myself with images of what my little girl might be enduring at the hands of sick, evil men, and pictured her last moments, the terror my baby must have felt, on a nauseating, inescapable loop in my head for more than two years. I’ve heard her voice in the middle of the night, calling out for her mummy. I’ve known the excruciating torture of praying my child is dead, rather than suffering.
And the woman who did this to me, who put me through this indescribable nightmare, is someone I once thought of as family.
My berserker frenzy eventually abates and I lean on my empty desk, panting. Now the red mist has lifted, all that’s left is a cold, unyielding hatred. I finally know where my daughter is. As soon as I knew the who, the where was obvious. I’m going to find Lottie and I’m going to lay waste to this woman’s life.
We won’t both walk away from this. Which means I need someone to make sure my girl gets home safely, no matter what happens to me.
Someone who isn’t afraid to break rules.
I find my phone amid the debris on the floor and pull up Quinn Wilde’s number.
two years and forty-four days missing
chapter 75
alex
I scan my boarding pass through the reader and hand over my passport. My heart pounds as the woman on security swipes it through her scanner. I used the same false ID to make the hotel and car hire reservations when I snatched Flora Birch and I cross my fingers some bright detective hasn’t thought to put out an all-ports alert on my alias as well as my real name.
But the security guard barely gives Alicia Emma Douglas a second glance as she waves me towards the body scanner.
It’s Quinn who triggers the alarm, with her metal spinal rods and plates and screws. It takes twenty minutes for a female officer to be found to pat her down, my agitation growing with every second.
‘You need to chill,’ Quinn says, as she’s finally cleared and we head towards our gate. ‘Take a bloody Valium if you’re nervous. You’re going to attract attention.’
‘What if someone recognises me?’
‘In that get-up?’
I’ve tucked my hair beneath a grey beanie, and I’m wearing combat trousers and an oversized plaid shirt, a far cry from my usual crisp, tailored suit and brogues. But I won’t fool facial recognition software or a sharp-eyed reader of the Mail.
I haven’t slept in more than thirty hours but I’m so wired I find it hard to keep still. My body vibrates with adrenaline as we take our seats on the plane. Lottie is alive. I know it in my soul, in the very marrow of my bones. She’s alive and she’s just one plane ride away from me.
‘Remember what you promised,’ I tell Quinn. ‘Lottie’s all that mat
ters. If something goes wrong, you don’t wait for me. You take Lottie and you leave.’
Quinn nods brusquely.
I lean back in my seat and close my eyes, trying to steady my jangling nerves. I made the right decision when I asked Quinn along. Jack would try to rescue me if I was in danger. I need someone who can walk away.
The woman must think she’s safe now; that she’s got away with it. After all, in more than two years, I’ve never even come close to guessing the truth, even though it was right under my nose. In her own warped, distorted way, I know she loves Lottie. She thinks she’s keeping her safe. But I’ve got no idea what she’ll do when she’s cornered.
Which is what makes her so dangerous.
Quinn and I don’t talk much on the drive from the airport. The air-conditioning in our rental car isn’t working, so I power down the windows, since it’s surprisingly warm given the time of year.
I’m not used to driving a manual vehicle and repeatedly crash the gears as I negotiate the mountain’s sharp hairpin bends.
‘Jesus,’ Quinn says, after the third or fourth time. ‘Want me to drive?’
‘Very funny,’ I mutter, struggling to get into third.
The landscape is barren and arid, one long undulating mass of sun-scorched fields littered with abandoned houses and farmsteads. Pockets of eucalyptus suddenly give way to stretches of scrubby grassland. Isolated mountaintop towns glower down on modern roads that have passed them by. It’s a beautiful, uncompromising land; a timeless vista of silent, sunburnt peaks, grey stone villages and forgotten valleys.
‘There,’ I say suddenly.
I point. It takes Quinn a moment to locate the villa, squatting on top of a small crag. Its ancient stone walls blend perfectly into the parched landscape.
‘Fuck. You weren’t kidding,’ she says.
There’s no way to approach the property unseen. The villa is effectively a small fortress, perched on its lonely mount with a clear view in every direction. It was built to defend itself against medieval marauders and I have no time to lay siege. I want my child back.
