by Lisa Hall
‘Someone must know something.’ Fran’s eyes are dry, but her voice is thick with tears. Her hands squeeze tightly around the soft toy she holds – one I recognise as Bom, a tired, worn-out tiger that has seen better days. Laurel has had it since she was born, and she refuses to sleep without it. I swallow down the lump in my throat. How has Laurel slept without Bom for the past two nights? ‘Someone must know where she is.’ She glances away from the camera, before pressing a tissue to her mouth as if to hold in a sob.
DI Dove holds up a hand as a buzz of chatter begins, the press already itching to ask their questions.
‘Yes?’ DI Dove points and a disembodied voice floats from somewhere off screen.
‘Will you be extending the search area now beyond the immediate vicinity of where Laurel was last seen?’
‘We will. We have been made aware of some information that may help us to narrow down a route that whoever took Laurel may have taken.’
‘Do you have any names?’ someone shouts out, and the entire school hall seems to hold its breath. I feel as though I haven’t taken a full breath myself since Fran and Dominic took their seats in front of the press. I am so relieved that I stood my ground.
‘When we have a name that we can release, we’ll let you know. One more question,’ DI Dove says sternly, taking a quick glance towards Fran and Dominic. Dominic seems to be OK, holding his own although his jaw is tense, but Fran looks fragile. She rearranges her features, trying to hide her emotion as best she can, and I wonder if she’s calling into play her drama training in an attempt to hold things together. Despite her best efforts, her face has lost any colour it might have had, leaving her cheeks a now familiar chalky white, her dark fringe lying starkly against her forehead. The tiny slick of pale lip gloss she smeared on glistens on her mouth as she moves her head slightly, to glance at whoever is off screen. Kelly, I presume, there to give support.
‘Did you have anything to do with your daughter’s disappearance?’
The question is asked, and the room falls silent. I feel light-headed, the room swaying slightly around me. I pull at the scarf, loosening it away from my hot skin.
‘Shiiiitttttt,’ a young lad in a bright yellow high-viz jacket whispers under his breath as he leans against a table, coffee in one hand, a poster bearing Laurel’s face in the other. On screen, the room erupts, as Dominic gets to his feet.
‘Are you kidding me?’ He shoves his chair back. DI Dove frowns before following suit. Fran says nothing, only blinks as her façade cracks and tears spill over her cheeks. She presses the tissue to her mouth again, Bom lying limply in the other hand.
‘Enough.’ Dove raises his hand, as Kelly appears on screen to usher Fran and Dominic away from the baying press. ‘No more questions. The appeal is over.’ He turns and follows Fran and Dominic from the room and the screen cuts back to the anchor in the newsroom. There is a shocked silence that fills the hall for just a few moments, before the conversation resumes, although more quietly than before.
Feeling sick, I sit back in my chair, poking a finger into the leftover foam in the bottom of my coffee cup. I don’t want to go home now, not after that, even though I know it will be a while before the Jessops return. The atmosphere in the house will be even more suffocating, especially as Dominic didn’t want to do the appeal in the first place.
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ A voice rouses me from my thoughts and I look up to see a tall, fair-haired woman standing in front of me.
‘Sure. I’m going anyway.’ I shrug and lean down to pick up my bag. I’ll go for a walk, leave it a while before I head back to the house.
‘Don’t go on my account,’ she smiles at me, and I think I recognise her from somewhere. ‘It’s raining hard out there. There’s plenty of room for both of us.’ I glance out of the window and she’s right. Rain streams down the glass, obscuring the small groups of people headed back out to resume the search for Laurel. It’s either go straight home or get soaked.
‘OK.’ I sink back down into my chair and pick up my phone, hoping she’ll get the hint. She doesn’t.
‘God, it’s awful, isn’t it?’ she says, gesturing towards the projector screen. The anchor is still talking, Laurel’s photo in a tiny square next to her head. ‘You just can’t imagine it.’
‘No,’ I say, blandly, still staring at my phone, scrolling through the messages from Jess (‘Where r u? Are u going to the appeal? I am at home if u want to watch here let me no ur ok’), and from a couple of the other nannies from the toddler group I used to take Laurel to (‘So sorry Anna, call if you need anything. Anna, this is Beth, pls let me know if I can help in any way’), and others that share the same underlying tone – thank goodness it wasn’t me this happened to. The woman is still talking, despite my giving her the cold shoulder. If she carries on, I’ll have to leave.
‘I think I recognise him, you know? The dad?’ She pauses, one hand on her chin, as she looks up at the screen again, and realisation starts to dawn.
‘You’re a bloody journalist, aren’t you?’ I say, anger bubbling up in my chest. ‘How dare you? Don’t you think we’ve got enough to deal with without you lot snooping around, pretending to be friendly?’ I get up and grab my bag, throwing it over my shoulder.
‘No, wait!’ she says. She’s taller than me, and she stands so that I’d have to force my way past her if I want to go. ‘I’m not a journalist, I swear. Please, sit down.’
I pause, wavering. I really don’t want to leave yet, not with the rain still pouring and the atmosphere at home. It’s like she can tell that I’m not sure, as she smiles, showing off perfectly even white teeth.
‘Please,’ she says again. I lower myself back down into the chair, warily. ‘Let me get you another coffee – just to say sorry for taking your table, and making you think . . . you know.’
‘OK.’ I nod, and she hurries over to the urn, returning quickly with another cup of vile, lukewarm coffee.
‘I’m not a journalist, I promise,’ she says, as she sips at her drink, wincing slightly at the taste. ‘It’s . . . it’s horrifying, isn’t it? I’m sure I recognise the father from my school days – Dominic, isn’t it? It’s scary to think that this could happen to someone you know.’
‘Yes. It’s terrifying,’ I agree, not wanting to elaborate on anything. I’m not sure if she realises I’m Laurel’s nanny. ‘For all the community.’
‘He was always very smart at school,’ she goes on, ‘one of the clever ones. He was in my year, but I didn’t really know him. I didn’t know he’d moved here.’
‘Why would you?’ I ask, curious now, at meeting someone who knew Dominic as a child.
‘Oh, you know. This is a small community, believe it or not. No different to living in a village. Most people know most things, if you get what I mean.’
That’s not the impression I’ve had of Oxbury in the three years I’ve lived here. I’ve had the impression that everyone keeps to themselves where possible, unless something really juicy happens, then everyone is fair game. I keep my mouth shut.
‘You’re the nanny, aren’t you? I saw you at the school, on Sunday morning. When they were searching for Laurel.’ So, she does know. The woman sitting across from me doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘Sorry – I probably should have said.’
‘And you’re definitely not a journalist?’ I raise my eyebrows disbelievingly.
‘No! God, no.’ She gives a small laugh. ‘Would that I had such an exciting job as that. I work in the library! No, I remember Dom from school, and I just wanted to check in, I suppose. I’m Ella, by the way. I used to live around here . . . God, years ago, I’ve only recently moved back to the area myself. I . . . I lost a child before and I know how excruciating the pain can be.’ Her brown eyes cloud over and she blinks rapidly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my skin prickling uncomfortably. What can you say to that?
‘How is Dom?’ she says, dabbing at her eyes briefly.
‘As well as can be expected.’<
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‘I bet Laurel is a lovely little thing, isn’t she?’ She laughs. ‘I can well imagine her, just like Dom. How are Dom and Fran holding up as a couple?’
‘She is lovely,’ I say, then, ‘Um . . . OK, I guess.’ I don’t mention the snippy, angry comments that are flying backwards and forwards between them, the heavy aura of tension that fills the room when they are both there together. ‘Why don’t you send a card or something? I’m sure Dominic would appreciate hearing from an old friend.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she shakes her head, ‘I don’t think Dom would even remember me. Gosh, it’s almost two o’clock. I’m so sorry, I have to dash. Meeting.’ She rolls her eyes and necks the last of her coffee. ‘Nice to meet you, Anna.’
‘Wait—’ I call out. ‘Don’t you want to . . . ?’ But she doesn’t hear me, hurrying away out into the rain, her hair flying out in a golden sheet behind her.
CHAPTER 8
Rather than return home, I stay out to help staple laminated posters of Laurel to trees and telegraph poles all around the village, rain streaming down my hair and soaking through my coat and jumper to my skin. Staying out to put up posters makes me feel as though I am doing some good, but I also feel the eyes of others on me all the time, judging me, whispering the same questions I ask myself over and over. Why didn’t she keep an eye on her? Why didn’t she keep her with her? Would you really let a little tot like that run off into a crowd? But is it worse than going back to a house that isn’t a home – even less so now that Laurel isn’t there – to rattle around, trying to keep busy even though there isn’t anything to do but attempt to avoid Fran’s blank stare, and Dominic’s simmering anger at the police? So I staple, unfold, staple, unfold on repeat, doing my best to avoid looking at Laurel’s face on the posters. Wishing I could tell her how sorry I am, how I wish I could turn back the clock to that night. I’d never take my eyes off her for a second.
As I pass Mr Snow’s house at the end of the lane, the posters all gone and my hands crippled with cold, he opens the front door and calls out to me.
‘Anna!’
I stop, fumbling with the gate latch to let myself into his garden, but he waves me away.
‘Stay there – I’ll come to you,’ he calls, leaning behind the door to pull out an umbrella before ambling up the path towards me. ‘Filthy weather,’ he says as he reaches the gate, holding the umbrella so that it covers both of us. ‘How are things?’
‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug, conscious of the rain that drips down my neck from the prongs of the umbrella. ‘No sign of Laurel yet. It’s only been four days but it feels like a long time since Saturday.’
‘Oh dear. Oh, dear me, that poor girl,’ Mr Snow sighs, his mouth turned down. ‘I watched the appeal earlier today. Her poor parents. I wish I could do more to help, but . . . I’m not as young as I was.’ He gives a half-hearted laugh, and I nod sympathetically, even though he doesn’t seem that old, not really.
‘Everyone is being more than helpful. But thank you.’
‘I remember my daughter being Laurel’s age, you know. Precious, they are, when they’re young – so inquisitive. Now she spends most of her time worrying about me.’ His eyes light up, and he fumbles in his pocket, and I worry for a moment that he’s going to pull out a photograph or something that he’ll expect me to pore over, but it’s only a hanky that he presses to his mouth. ‘These days . . .’ he coughs into the hanky and my stomach turns slightly, ‘you can never be too careful, Anna. You never know who’s out there. Never take your eyes off them for a second.’
I am drenched by the time I arrive back at the house almost three hours later, but at least I feel as though I have done something useful today, even if nothing comes of it. It’s getting dark and cold and there is a hint of bonfire smoke on the air – a smell that I think now will forever make my stomach flip over and nausea rise in my throat. As I slide my key into the lock and take off my soggy trainers in the hallway, I can feel the row in the air. Something thick and dark and close enough to touch, and although there is no sign of Fran and Dominic, it’s clear they are home and things aren’t good.
If I was asked before any of this happened if Fran and Dominic had a good relationship I don’t know how I would respond. On the surface, everything is perfect – when they do go out as a couple, everyone comments on how good they look together, how wonderful they are as parents – Jess frequently tells me how Claire says her husband Tom should be more like Dominic. They are the envy of everyone in Oxbury. They have it all – the beautiful daughter, nice house, fabulous careers, the occasional mention in the society pages.
Fran is often out in the evenings, working late in shows, then when she is home, she tries to spend a reasonable amount of time with Laurel, but things often get in the way. Things that she could ignore if she really wanted to. But if Fran is out a lot then Dominic is ten times worse – always working, always at the hospital, prioritising sick patients over his own wife and child, something that comes up time and again in arguments.
At first I used to think Fran was being a bitch, begrudging Dominic time with his patients, but I’ve since learned that it’s not the hospital that she has a problem with. Fran is never one hundred per cent convinced that Dominic is where he says he is (namely at work), her jealousy rising to the surface over any little thing, and she is so obsessed by money sometimes, it’s unreal. They don’t want for anything and she has more than enough, but she is still frugal, bollocking me if I buy the more expensive brands of cereal for Laurel, as if I’m going to waste all their money and leave her destitute.
That said, Laurel never goes without. She gets everything she needs – materially, anyway – Fran loves nothing more than to dress her up in designer clothes that I then have to make sure stay clean. Not easy when Laurel would rather be outside playing in the garden in a pair of old jogging bottoms. It would just be nice if the three of them could spend more quality time together, without the threat of a row about to start, or the bitter aftertaste of one that has been resolved. But I suppose that’s where I come in – it’s my job to give Laurel a bit of stability, a routine. To reassure her that there is someone who will always be there.
I am the one who reads to Laurel before bed, baths her, sings songs to her in an attempt to drown out the angry, bitter words that float up the stairs. I am the one that teaches her to tie her shoelaces and encourages her to try new foods, all while Fran and Dominic are at work or having half whispered arguments in the kitchen about where he has been. Of the pair of them, Fran is the high maintenance one and I would say Dominic is more relaxed, less inclined to lose his temper – up until Sunday morning anyway, I haven’t forgotten the way his fingers dug into my arms – but they rub along well together most of the time. So, on the surface, yes, they have a wonderful relationship, but sometimes, looking deeper, it’s not all as rosy as it seems and there are times, more than usual recently, when Laurel and I come home to a house thick with spite and bitter words. Today it seems, even after the events of the past few days, things are still the same.
I creep up the stairs, not wanting Fran to hear me and call me into whichever room they’ve argued in. I just want to get changed into dry clothes and try to sleep for an hour or two, exhaustion having caught up with me. Managing to get into my room unseen, I pull on clean sweatpants and a hoody, a pair of thick socks to warm my feet, when my mobile alerts me to someone wanting to FaceTime me. I pause, head half in, half out of the hoody, before pulling it over my head and snatching up the phone before the ringtone alerts Fran to my presence.
‘Hello?’ I swipe to answer, hurriedly smoothing my hair back into place.
‘Hello? Is that you, love?’ My mother’s face appears on the screen and my heart speeds up in my chest. Why is she calling me now?
‘Errr . . . yes, it’s me. How are you?’ Sitting on the edge of the bed I angle the screen so that the blank magnolia wall is behind me. None of the press on the doorstep managed to catch me, did they? I’ve tried
so hard to keep a low profile.
‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ She gives a little sniff and there is a pause while she waits for me to ask what the problem is. I don’t ask. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Not a lot,’ I say, glancing at my watch. Let’s hope she’s not in for the long haul. ‘Just working mostly.’
‘Have you seen what’s happened?’ A note of sadness creeps into her voice. ‘That little girl in Surrey . . . she’s gone missing, you know. Out with her mother, she takes her eye off her for one minute and that’s it, she’s gone.’ My heart bangs in my chest, and I have to take a deep breath before I can speak.
‘I haven’t seen it, Mum,’ I lie, convinced that lightning will strike me at any minute. ‘It hasn’t reached up here yet.’
‘Oh, well, good,’ she says, ‘It’s not a nice story, but we’ll simply have to hope for a happy ending. Anyway . . .’ She pauses, and I close my eyes for a brief moment, seeing the house in Scotland, the blood on the flagstone floor, the way it had soaked into my hands, embedding the skin around my nails, and how I’d had to scrub until my hands were sore to get it out.
‘You still there? I said, how’s the weather up with you?’
Pulling myself back to the present I let out a silent whoosh of relief. ‘Getting cold now. They think maybe it might snow next week.’ I cross my fingers and hope she doesn’t check the weather forecast. ‘But it’s OK. We’re not so busy now the holiday season is over.’
‘Will you be coming home for Christmas?’ she asks, and I can still hear it, that little rise in her voice that tells me she doesn’t really want me there, not after what happened. I’m not the daughter she can boast about to the neighbours, not any more.
