Have You Seen Her

by Lisa Hall

  ‘Sorry, you startled me,’ I say, pressing my hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat thud rapidly beneath my palm.

  ‘Sorry.’ He looks a little sheepish. ‘I only wanted to say . . . you did the right thing just now. Speaking up to say that you thought Laurel might have got in the car.’

  ‘Oh. I just . . . I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘Really, Anna, it was the right thing to do. I saw the look Fran gave you when you said it, and I . . . look, you know how she is.’ Our eyes meet in a look of understanding. Yes, I know how she is. ‘This is really tough on her, and she’s probably going to take a lot of it out on you, but I understand that it’s tough on you, too. You can talk to me, if you need to.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I feel a faint blush start to creep up my neck, relief that perhaps I am not on my own through this starting to flood my veins.

  ‘And if you think of anything – anything at all that might help find Laurel – in the meantime just come to me.’ Dominic pats the top of my arm and turns to head back down the stairs to Fran.

  My room is freezing cold, the weak wintry sunlight streaming in through the window not enough to warm the room at all. I’m not sure if it’s the temperature of the room, or the fact that Laurel is missing that makes me shiver, my arms stippled with goosebumps. My stomach twists, as I think of her again, running after Fran, the way I turned back to the fireworks display before I saw her catch up. Why didn’t I keep my eyes on her, just for a few seconds longer?

  Clothes litter the end of my bed, from where I tried on and discarded several different outfits before leaving last night, settling on the blue and white striped top I still wear now. I sniff under the armpits and grimace, before tugging it over my head and dropping it into the laundry pile. I need a shower, and clean clothes. My blonde hair hangs limply around my shoulders, and the tops of my feet are splattered with tiny flecks of mud where my trainers didn’t cover them.

  Listening out as I step on to the landing, I hear the murmur of voices below as I go into the bathroom and lock the door. The hot water thunders down over my hair and I let go of the tears that I’ve held at bay since this morning. Salty trails stream down my cheeks, mixing with the hot water from the shower, and I gasp as my nose clogs, the steam catching in the back of my throat.

  I love Laurel. It’s something I find hard to admit, even to myself. I’ve been in a situation before where I let myself become attached – and look how that ended, I chide myself. I swore that this time, it would merely be a temporary stopgap until I could find something else, a different job where I could simply turn up from nine to five and then go home and not think about it again till the morning. But I got lured in by Laurel and her familiar baby smell, right at the beginning. It is second nature to me to comfort her as she runs to me, not Fran, when she falls and hurts herself. She fell a few weeks ago, as she ran in from the garden, the paving slabs wet and slippery underfoot. Fran and I had been stood in the kitchen, both of us hearing the thud as she went down and then her thin piercing shriek. We’d rushed outside together, Fran pushing past me to get to her first, her arms outstretched ready to pick her up, but Laurel had shrieked louder and shaken her head, reaching her arms out to me, for me to scoop her up and carry her inside. Fran had shrugged it off, but I’d seen the look of fury on her face when I had lifted Laurel up, her head fitting naturally into the hollow of my shoulder as if she were my own.

  Spending all that time caring for her, making sure she is happy, looked after, it was inevitable that I would get attached in the end. And now, it’s happening again, just as it did before. I take my eye off the ball for a few seconds and everything comes tumbling down.

  *

  Fran is lurking outside the bathroom when I slide the lock back and pull the door open, making me jump, and I almost drop the bundle of dirty laundry I am carrying. I can only hope that the thunder of the water drowned out the sound of my sobbing, although the redness around my eyes will still give it away.

  ‘I’m going to try and get some rest,’ she tells me, her face closed. I don’t blame her. I don’t think she slept at all last night and her face is pinched with exhaustion. Plus, she is clearly still annoyed with me for what I said – it’s probably best for both of us to be in separate rooms for a while. ‘Get Dominic to wake me up if . . . anything happens.’ She glances down towards the bundle in my arms. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Just the laundry.’ I have collected up my own dirty clothes, as well as the bundle in the bottom of the laundry basket. It’s not my job to do the laundry; Fran has a cleaner every day that takes care of it, but I feel as though I am lost at sea without Laurel to occupy me.

  ‘No, that.’ She points at something sticking out of the bottom of the bundle, that I can’t see from the position I am holding it in. ‘Give it to me.’ She tugs, and the clothes fall out of my arms, all over the hall carpet. Fran is clutching a scrap of lilac cotton to her face, that I recognise as the nightdress I took off Laurel yesterday morning before I put her in the bath.

  ‘No one said you could take this!’ Fran cries, tears shining in the corners of her eyes. ‘No one said you could do the laundry! Just leave it! Put it all back!’ She holds the nightdress tight against herself, rocking slightly as she cries.

  ‘Fran? What’s going on?’ Dominic thunders up the stairs, concern pulling his eyebrows in to a deep crease in his forehead. ‘Anna?’

  ‘I was just . . .’ I stutter, too frightened to say anything more. There is something primal, something horrifying, about the way Fran wails, the noise chilling the blood in my veins.

  ‘She was going to wash Laurel’s clothes!’ Fran cries, before burying her face in the soft washed cotton again, her shoulders hitching.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think . . .’ Of course, Fran wouldn’t want me to wash Laurel’s clothes, how could I be so stupid? ‘I only wanted to help.’

  ‘Leave it, Anna. Fran, come on. I’ll take you upstairs.’ His tone curt, Dominic puts an arm around his wife, guiding her gently towards the stairs that lead to the attic room. Fran turns to stare at me over one shoulder, and I look down, not wanting to meet her gaze, ashamed that I could be so thoughtless.

  I grab my laptop and slide down onto the floor, my back against the radiator as I wait for it to boot up. The incident with Fran has left me feeling drained and shaken, and I wish I could sleep, but I know I won’t. My mind is too busy turning over the events of the past few hours, the vision of Laurel climbing into the back of a car etched on my brain. As I wait for the laptop, my mobile buzzes. It’s Jess. Again. She’s messaged several times since I left her, and I can’t ignore her any longer.

  ‘Jess?’

  ‘Anna. Just wanted to check you’re OK? This morning was pretty emotional.’ Understatement of the year.

  ‘I’m OK. Well . . . you know.’

  ‘I’m guessing it wasn’t Laurel then?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t. I made a mistake, a massive one.’ I close my eyes, thinking of that blonde head bobbing in the window of the caravan. I’d been so sure.

  ‘Have you been on Facebook today?’ Jess asks, a note of trepidation creeping into her voice.

  ‘Not yet. Why?’ I pull the laptop back towards me and log into my Facebook page. ‘Oh.’ The first thing that comes up in my timeline is a page entitled ‘FIND LAUREL JESSOP’. I click on the page and Laurel’s face fills my screen. My heart does a little double skip in my chest as I start to read the opening post.

  ‘Jess, who did this? Was it you?’

  ‘No, it was Cheryl Smythe. She’s been rather busy since yesterday evening, don’t you think?’ I can picture Jess rolling her eyes as she speaks.

  ‘Do you think this will help?’ I am scrolling down the page, scanning my eyes over the posts. They are all incredibly supportive, some offering ideas as to what may have happened to Laurel, others suggesting places to search. There is a post from eight o’clock this morning, from Cheryl, informing people that the school hall will be the main poin
t of contact for all search volunteers – which explains why it had been so busy this morning.

  ‘It can’t do any harm, can it?’ Jess says. ‘I mean, look at how social media has worked before. Lots of people have been found thanks to thousands of others all sharing the same image. I just thought that I should let you know in case Fran hasn’t seen it yet.’

  I don’t know how Fran will react to the page.

  ‘Thanks, Jess.’ I hang up, and push myself to my feet, my stomach rumbling. It’s almost mid-afternoon and I haven’t eaten since one of Pete the Meat’s dodgy barbecue burgers last night, and despite feeling as though I could never feel hungry again, my stomach is telling me otherwise. Deciding to make a few rounds of sandwiches – as far as I know neither Fran nor Dominic have eaten today either – I head into the kitchen, only to find Dominic, Fran and Kelly all sitting at the kitchen table. There is no sign of DS Wright and I assume she’s gone back to the investigation.

  ‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ I say, glancing from one person to the next and wondering if I should head back up to my room, even though I desperately what to hear what is being said.

  ‘Not at all.’ Kelly gives me a brief smile. ‘Now, as DS Wright was saying earlier, we are still pursuing the information we have been given regarding the SUV, and news of Laurel’s disappearance has reached the national press. We’re not too sure who contacted them, but it was to be expected in a situation like this.’ A knife twists in my chest at hearing Laurel referred to as a situation and my eyes flick towards Fran, who sits blank-faced, her hands clasped together on the table in front of her. ‘We believe that our next course of action should be to hold a press conference to answer questions, to keep the press on our side.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ Dominic says, raising one hand. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t want . . . I don’t think a press conference is a good idea.’

  ‘What?’ Fran says, her eyes wide. ‘Why not, Dom? Don’t you want to find Laurel?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Dominic snaps, ‘but you know what happens with a press conference?’ He turns to Kelly, who sits there calmly, waiting. ‘You know, don’t you? They’ll all be scrutinising us! They’ll be saying that we had something to do with it!’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. No one would think that. We have to do it, Dom, if it means that we can get Laurel back.’ Fran taps her fingers on the table top, long nails scratching at the wooden surface, a noise that sets my teeth on edge.

  ‘Look at all the other times it’s happened!’ Dominic shouts. ‘All the other criminals who stood there on television, telling the world to please, just give their little princess back, and then all the time it was them!’ His voice breaks, and he slumps back down into the chair. ‘I don’t want that, Fran. I don’t want people thinking we’re guilty of something we’re not.’

  ‘Dominic,’ Kelly lays her hand gently on his, ‘I promise you, people don’t think like that. This is the best chance we have of keeping the press on side, and we’ll only reveal the things that we need to right now.’

  The doorbell gives its piercing ring, making all of us jump. I pull away from where I lean against the kitchen counter. ‘I’ll get it.’ There is a dark silhouette in the glass as I approach the door, and when I pull it open I am stunned to hear a cacophony of voices, flashbulbs going off in my face, and more than one iPhone shoved under my nose as questions are shouted at me, relentlessly one after the other.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Laurel?’

  ‘Who are you to the family?’

  ‘Can we speak with Fran and Dominic?’

  The press has arrived.

  CHAPTER 7

  Pushing open the door to the school hall I slide my way in, grabbing the first available seat at a table tucked into the corner. It’s busy, the air buzzing with conversation as volunteers bustle about, some of them wearing T-shirts with Laurel’s face on, and obviously, the talk is all of the same topic. Laurel.

  It was a complicated mission to get here this morning, one which involved creeping along the path that runs through the back garden and sliding through the battered wooden gate at the end, cap pulled down low over my forehead so that the press didn’t see me. My heart skips as I think about the potential fallout if a picture of me appears on the front page of a national newspaper. Thankfully none of the hurried snaps they took on Sunday evening as I opened the door made it to the pages of the newspapers. It’ll be OK. I’ve changed my hair, lost weight. I’m barely recognisable as the old me anymore. That’s what I tell myself anyway, but you can never be too careful.

  Hence that’s why I am sitting on my own in the school hall, the hub of the volunteer search centre, instead of accompanying Dominic and Fran to the television appeal. Fran protested at first when I said I didn’t think I should be there. My mouth went dry with panic that she would demand an explanation as to why I didn’t want to go, but I was forgetting that the old Fran isn’t here anymore, that we’re dealing with this new, raw, broken Fran. She gave in almost immediately, too tired or too fragile to argue when Dominic agreed that I should stay home.

  So, I watched them both leave this morning from the window, peering out from the between the blinds as Dominic chivalrously helped Fran into a waiting unmarked car, as DS Wright got into the driver’s seat, as they drove away towards the main road – the few greedy, grasping press who haven’t already left for the appeal chasing after them – before hiding myself away in here.

  I keep my head down as I wait for the appeal to start, but it doesn’t stop someone hovering in the periphery of my vision, and I look up to see the woman from before. Ruth, I think she said her name was. She stands to one side of me, close enough that I can smell soap on her skin, a harsh carbolic scent.

  ‘Hello,’ she says in a hushed voice, ‘are you here to watch the appeal?’ She doesn’t wait for me to respond before she carries on talking. ‘Fran looks ever so frail, doesn’t she? I saw her getting in the car this morning. I hope she’s eating enough, I did send her a few text messages, but she hasn’t replied yet. But I’m cooking lasagne when I get home and I’ll bring it over. She needs to keep her strength up, you know. It’s a terrible feeling, losing someone like this. Losing a child.’ Her words tumble out one after the other, as if she is worried I’ll stop her from speaking before she’s said all she wants to say. Fran must know her from somewhere.

  Someone makes a shushing noise, as Fran’s face fills the huge projector screen that has been wheeled into the hall, a nameless parent hooking up their laptop so we can all watch the appeal. Her eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are pale, apart from two spots of colour that flare high on each. The woman is right, she does look frail. I turn to agree, but she has moved off, across to the other side of the hall. The man sat behind the laptop fiddles with the keys, turning up the volume, and the newscaster’s voice fills the hall.

  ‘. . . not seen since Saturday evening, at the annual fireworks event hosted by the Oxbury Primary School. Police are searching . . .’

  Don’t they say the first twenty-four hours are the most important in a police investigation? That in the case of child abduction if the child isn’t found within three hours there’s a higher risk of harm? It’s Wednesday now, and over seventy-two hours since anyone last saw Laurel. I close my eyes and wish I’d waited at home to watch the appeal, instead of out here, but the thought of sitting alone in that chilly, too-bright house, with none of the warmth that usually fills it, had made me want to cry and I had to get out. There is an essence, a vibe, that is missing now Laurel isn’t there, something that only Laurel brings. Now, sweat prickles at the back of my neck, as the air in the hall feels thick and stifling, and I feel scrutinised by the people around me, even though I know it’s probably all in my head. But I’ve been here before, haven’t I? Watched by every member of the public, opinions forming before they even know the truth, making their decisions based on the lies printed by the media, guilt forming a hard ball in my stomach. I straighten up in my chair, as if tryi
ng to convince myself that this time it’s different.

  ‘Still managed to put her make-up on,’ a woman sitting behind me sniffs to her companion under her breath.

  I bite my tongue hard, in order not to say anything – I should have known that some will only be here to find out what’s going on; after all, that’s only human nature, isn’t it? And, of course, people will be judging Fran and Dominic (and you, a spiteful voice whispers in the back of my mind) – look at how we all jumped on Kate and Gerry McCann – and the fact that Fran has managed to smear a slick of palest pink lipstick over her mouth and a smudge of concealer under each eye will only make people judge her even harder. If you knew her, I think viciously, internally, if you knew her then you’d see the black circles under her eyes that push through the thin layer of concealer, you’d see the new tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and alongside her mouth. The force with which I think these thoughts is a surprise to me, I never would have believed that I could have felt protective over Fran – sharp, spiky, demanding Fran.

  Someone shushes, and a hush settles over the hall as we all strain to hear the appeal. On screen, Fran and Dominic sit behind a table, their hands clasped tightly together. Fran sits up rigidly in her chair, her mouth a grim slash carved into her porcelain white skin. DI Dove leads the appeal, his voice thick and dark like hot rum, as he goes over Fran’s story of the events of Saturday night. My heart catches in my throat as he talks about Laurel, what she was wearing, where she was last seen. It feels like forever but is realistically only a few minutes before Dominic begins to speak.

  ‘Please,’ his voice is scratchy, but he almost seems relaxed compared to Fran, whose shoulders are somewhere up around her ears. ‘If anyone has seen Laurel, please, please contact the police. If you think you might have seen something, anything, no matter how insignificant . . . it might not seem like anything much, but it might just bring our little princess home to us.’