by Lisa Hall
Letting out a slow breath to steady my nerves, I click, and get my first glimpse of Katrina Snow as an adult. She’s dark, like her mother, her skin a deep olive, cheeks flushed red with exertion, her hair sticking to her forehead as she holds out her arms in triumph, her feet flying as she crosses the finish line. Her eyes are closed in the photo, but there is no mistaking the look of elation on her face. Her bib reads KATRINA with a race number underneath pinned to her vest, and I scroll down to read the information beneath the picture. It reads: KATRINA SNOW – 2798 – time: 2:27:15 – Surrey Half Marathon – March 2014.
Surrey Half Marathon. All this time, Katrina Snow hasn’t been in Manchester at all. She’s been in Surrey, close to her father. Now I know where she is, or at least where she was in 2014, it makes it easier for me to carry on searching, and before too long I have found her Facebook profile (mostly private, but there’s access to profile pictures) and finally, an address. It’s on the other side of Oxbury, over towards Chertsey, and I glance at my watch, already knowing what I’m going to do, regardless of whether it’s the right thing or not. I screenshot the information and stretch out my stiff limbs, a buzz of excitement rippling through me, before I hurry away towards the bus station. It’s a sign, I tell myself, as I wait at the bus stop for the next bus towards Chertsey. If she’d still been in Manchester, then maybe . . . but she isn’t. According to the electoral roll she lives near Chertsey, with a man that I am assuming is her partner. So surely, the fact that she is in Surrey is a sign that I should go and see her, speak to her, see if she can tell me anything at all about Mr Snow and what he might have done to Laurel. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
When I get off the bus Google Maps tells me it’s only a three-minute walk to Katrina’s house. As I turn into her road, the clouds that have gathered throughout the morning start to empty and rain begins to splatter the pavement with thick, heavy drops. I hurry my stride a little, not wanting to appear like a bedraggled hobo when I eventually reach her place. Checking the numbers as I walk, I reach number twelve. Katrina’s house.
I pause for a moment before I start to walk down the path to the front door which is covered in flaking red paint, a dirty brass knocker in the middle. The front garden is in stark contrast to Mr Snow’s. In contrast to his carefully tended lawn, stripes mowed into it religiously every Sunday afternoon, the shrubs and bushes he keeps neat and trimmed, and the tulips, lobelia, roses that spring up throughout the spring and summer much to Laurel’s delight, this garden is slightly shabby. The grass hasn’t been cut since the end of the summer, and dead leaves litter the path from a cherry tree in the corner. A child’s trike lies upturned on the lawn, and there is a faint whiff of rubbish from the large black refuse bin at the end of the path, a bulge of black sack peeping out from where the lid doesn’t quite close properly.
I tuck the rain-soaked ends of my hair back under my hat and lift the battered knocker, letting it fall three times. It’s only a matter of seconds before the door is pulled open, and Katrina stands in front of me.
‘Yes?’ Her face is creased into a scowl, but it is unmistakably her. She looks slightly different to the photo I found, her body plump and curvy as opposed to the skinny runner’s frame in the picture, but I recognise her olive skin, the wide curve of her mouth, even if it is downturned now.
Nerves make my mouth freeze for a moment before her name tumbles out. ‘Katrina?’
‘Yes?’ she says again, the frown on her forehead deepening. ‘Oh – no. I’m not speaking to any journalists.’ Her voice is soft, a faint hint of a northern accent peeping through. Quickly, I raise my hand to push against the door as she starts to close it.
‘I’m not a journalist,’ I say, ‘I know your dad.’
‘You know my father?’ she says, and the pressure of the door lessens slightly against the flat of my palm. She still looks uncertain, so I plough on.
‘Look, can I come in? It’s pouring out here.’ I give a little laugh. ‘I just want to talk to you if that’s OK? I swear I’m not a journalist, or police or some weird vigilante type.’
‘No, you’re not coming in. Jesus, I don’t even know who you are – you say you know my dad but how do I know you’re telling the truth? You could be anyone.’ She folds her arms across her chest, a barrier against me, but she doesn’t close the door.
‘Look, I know you don’t know me, that I could be anybody, but please, Katrina . . . I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. I know that he loves his garden, and his grandchildren.’ I think for a moment, picturing him coughing into his hanky. ‘I know that he’s not well at the moment, and that you’re worried about him.’
Katrina frowns and I think, maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but then the door is pulled open and she reluctantly nods behind her, her eyes still narrowed with suspicion. ‘Come in then. Only for five minutes mind, and only because it’s raining so hard.’
I follow her through into a cramped sitting room, toys littered across the floor. A small boy sits amongst them driving a car round and round in circles. He looks up at me and smiles, his face a tiny replica of his mother’s.
‘So,’ Katrina says, throwing herself in to an armchair, ‘if you know my dad as well as you say you do, then you know what’s happened to him.’
‘Yes,’ I say, unsure whether to sit or not. In the end I settle for perching on the end of the couch, where the small boy immediately starts driving the toy car up and over my leg. ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you about . . . see, I know the little girl who is missing.’
‘Right.’ She sits up straighter in the chair and I think maybe she’s changed her mind about letting me in.
‘I . . . I’m her nanny. I look after her.’
‘I know what a nanny does, thanks,’ she snaps at me and I realise I’m going to have to speak fast before she throws me out.
‘I was the one who got Laurel speaking to your dad. We’d pass him every morning, and we got chatting. He’s . . . I thought he was a nice man, but then the police took him in and said he was “helping with enquiries” and . . . well, I did some research and I read about what he did to you.’
‘He is a nice man,’ Katrina says, quietly. Her voice is low, but I can see a tiny spark of anger flicker in her dark eyes. ‘What you read – it didn’t happen the way they said it did.’
I lick my lips nervously, before I speak again. ‘Katrina . . . do you think your dad has anything to do with Laurel’s disappearance? If there was anything, anything at all, that you think could help me . . . I have to get her back – this is all my fault. If I hadn’t . . .’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Katrina’s eyes widen in disbelief, as she shakes her head. ‘I thought you said you knew him?’
‘Well, as an acquaintance,’ I say, trailing off, my eyes drawn down to the little boy at my feet.
‘If you knew him, you’d know that he would never do something like this.’ She catches herself, as she realises that that technically isn’t true. ‘Take a kid he doesn’t know, I mean. You don’t have any idea about what really happened, do you?’
‘So, tell me. Please,’ I say. I haven’t come all this way to leave with nothing, even if it doesn’t lead me to Laurel.
Katrina is quiet for a moment, as if wrestling with something internally, before she begins to speak. ‘I’m only telling you this because I don’t want you to think badly of him, OK? I don’t owe you anything.’ She glares at me, and I nod to show her I understand. ‘He was getting divorced from my mum. She said I could stay with him over the weekend. I missed him, you know?’ Her dark eyes are sad as she watches the boy playing on the floor in front of us. ‘We had the best weekend. Then, on the Sunday night he said I didn’t have to go back, not if I didn’t want to. And I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay with him.’
‘Surely he knew your mum would call the police?’
‘I don’t think he cared.’ Katrina fiddles with the tassel on a pink cushion next to her, avoiding my eyes. ‘She was going
to take me away, you know. She had it all planned. He’d left because she was so unbearable to live with, so . . . volatile. She’s high maintenance, my mum. He was unhappy, and he left, and then she wanted to punish him. So, she was planning on flying us both to Turkey on the Tuesday after I came home, and she wasn’t going to come back. He found out, and he wasn’t going to let that happen, even if it meant getting arrested.’
I let out a long breath and lean back against the couch. ‘Wow. It really didn’t happen like they said it did. I thought . . . God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I thought. I literally jumped to conclusions.’
‘Yeah,’ Katrina gives a sad half smile, ‘the same way whoever called into that crime show did. And now the police are all over him, and he’s got to go through it all over again. He’s an old man – he doesn’t deserve this.’
‘But . . .’ I don’t want to say it, but I have to. ‘Surely, they must have had something other than this, to be able to bring him in? I mean . . . if it happened like you say, surely the police . . .?’ I rub my hands over my face. I am confused, tired and nothing seems to be making any sense any more.
‘He’s got the same sort of car that they’re looking for. A dark SUV?’ Katrina says. ‘Someone knows his history, and what car he’s driving and put two and two together. But they got five, Anna. He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t take Laurel.’
‘How?’ I say quietly, my eyes on Katrina’s son. ‘How can you be so sure that he didn’t have something to do with Laurel going missing? And don’t just say it’s because he’s your father.’
Katrina gets to her feet, scooping the boy up from the floor into her arms. He wails as he drops the toy car, and I stoop to pick it up for him.
‘He gave Laurel this.’ I pull the little toy doll from my back pocket. Katrina plucks it from my hand, turning it over, inspecting it.
‘That belongs to Maryiam. My daughter. The fact that he gave it to Laurel doesn’t mean anything. He’s kind. That’s all.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s time you left,’ Katrina says, her voice like steel as she ushers me towards the front door, angling herself so that I have no option but to leave. As we reach the door, Katrina giving me a gentle shove over the threshold, she speaks again.
‘I know he didn’t do it, Anna, because he was with me.’ Her voice is low and serious, as she hefts the boy higher up on her hip. ‘It was Oskar’s birthday on Saturday. Dad came over in the afternoon, to help me with his party. He had his nursery friends over. Dad stayed here till probably ten o’clock, and then he left. Long after Laurel went missing. That’s how I know. And that’s what I’ve told the police. Don’t come here again.’ And she slams the door firmly closed in my face.
Ruth is in the kitchen when I arrive home, my head filled with my conversation with Katrina, which I replay over and over again. I look to Fran in confusion.
‘She brought food. Again.’ She sits at the table, her fingers playing with a single cigarette, as Ruth bustles about the kitchen reheating something from yet another foil-covered dish. The fact that she is here again makes me feel slightly uncomfortable – after all, she barely knows any of us and surely, she should be at home with her own family?
‘Fran, can I talk to you?’ I say.
‘Yes. Of course.’ Fran starts to stand as I gesture with my head towards the back door.
‘Oh, you can speak freely in front of me,’ Ruth says, as she loads a tray into the oven.
‘It’s family stuff,’ Fran says, snatching up the cigarette from the table, and we step out into the damp, drizzly rain.
‘Mr Snow didn’t do it,’ I say, straight away, the feeling of relief that comes with the words making me feel lighter than air. This wasn’t my fault.
‘Oh, Anna. Is that where you’ve been all afternoon?’ Fran says gently. ‘The police called not long before you arrived home. They told us he has a rock-solid alibi. Some family party or something. He’s off the hook.’ She fumbles in her pocket for a lighter, shielding her cigarette from the rain as she lights it.
‘Oh.’ I thought I had been so clever this afternoon, using my initiative, but it turns out I needn’t have bothered after all. Although what else would I have done? There’s nothing for me to do at home now that Laurel isn’t here. ‘Does Dominic know?’
‘Who knows?’ Fran’s face hardens as she blows out a stream of grey-blue smoke. ‘I haven’t seen him all day. Perhaps you know where he is? After all, you seem to have had quite the investigative day.’ All at once the tension returns, the air thickening and I struggle to find the right words to say, knowing by Fran’s tone that whatever I say will be wrong, as it so often is.
‘No. No I don’t know where he is.’
She must catch something in my voice because an unreadable expression crosses her face and she reaches out to gently touch my arm. ‘Sorry, Anna. This is hard for you too, isn’t it? I know I’m a prickly old bitch.’
‘No, no of course you’re not,’ I say automatically. Fran raises an eyebrow and gives a small laugh, one that is crammed full of sadness.
‘You’re a good girl, Anna. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all of this. I forget that you love Laurel too, that you miss her probably just as much as I . . . as we do. I really am so dreadfully sorry.’ She stubs out her cigarette and turns on her heel, leaving me alone outside in the rain. So, Dominic is gone again. I recall his words from earlier today. Perhaps if you hadn’t been such a bitch . . . I push away the thought of the long, blonde hair that I plucked from his jacket from my mind. Where are you, Laurel? Please, come home.
CHAPTER 14
Dominic is in the kitchen when I come down from my room the next morning, and he’s clearly not happy by the way he is slamming things around. Kelly sits quietly in the corner, a cup of coffee to her lips as she just sits observing. Dominic throws his empty mug into the sink and marches out, slamming the door behind him.
‘Jesus,’ I breathe, helping myself to a slice of toast. I’ve barely eaten since Laurel went missing, and now I have to force myself to butter the bread, bring it to my lips, bite and then actually swallow. ‘Did something happen?’ Every day seems to feel like it stretches into weeks, time passes so slowly, all the time that Laurel isn’t here.
‘You could say that.’ Kelly raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Fran . . .’
‘Good morning!’ Fran slips into the room, an anxious smile on her face and I look to Kelly in alarm. Something isn’t right. Fran hasn’t smiled at all, I don’t think, not since Laurel went missing. ‘Anna, did Kelly tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’ I look between the two of them – Fran’s eyes shining, a healthy glow back in her cheeks, and Kelly, sitting there quietly, her face pale – I’m not sure what to make of it.
‘Oh, Kelly.’ Fran rolls her eyes, but I see the flash of irritation there before it disappears. ‘So, Anna. Something exciting is happening today – something that could give us a real breakthrough in finding Laurel.’ She pauses, as if to ramp up the tension and I have to bite back a mild feeling of disgust that she is turning this into a dramatic announcement, almost like one of her shows. ‘I have a psychic coming to the house!’
I stare at her, open-mouthed. A psychic? This goes against everything I know about Fran, in all the time I have been working for her. She is the biggest sceptic going – she doesn’t even bother to read her own horoscope. This is the last thing I thought she was going to say, and it also explains why Dominic is in such a foul mood.
‘Obviously, Dominic isn’t keen,’ Fran says, ‘but we need to do anything and everything that might help Laurel, don’t you think?’ She looks pointedly at Kelly.
‘Look, Fran, you know my feelings on this,’ Kelly says, a little awkwardly. ‘I’m not sure this is the right decision. I mean, you are vulnerable at the moment, and we don’t know this woman – she could simply be trying to take advantage of your situation.’
‘And she might tell us where Laurel is.’ Fran’s teeth are gritted,
and I watch her fingers wander to her pocket, to the outline of her cigarette packet. ‘She’ll be here soon. I need to go and get ready.’
My heart leaps in my chest as the piercing ring of the doorbell cuts through the silence of the house, and I dash to the front door, only to open it to find Ruth standing there.
‘Ruth.’ I am reluctant to let her in, knowing the plans Fran has for this morning.
‘Can I come in?’ She peers past me, smiling. ‘I have some cookies for you all – I baked them fresh this morning – and I designed a new poster for the search volunteers to hand out, I wondered if Fran could have a look at them, make sure it’s OK.’ She rests a hand against the front door as if she’s going to push it open.
‘Ruth! How kind of you.’ Fran glides up behind me, her slippered feet silent on the tiled floor, and I worry for a moment that she’s going to invite Ruth in to sit in with the psychic, another ally against Dominic’s refusal to support her. ‘I’m terribly sorry, now really isn’t a good time. Here, let me take those.’ She reaches out and takes the plate of cookies, leaving me to take the rolled-up posters from Ruth. ‘Thank you though, darling.’ And with a brief, sad smile she closes the door gently in Ruth’s face. Despite how uncomfortable Ruth’s attention makes me, I can’t help but feel relieved that she isn’t here to see Fran go straight into the kitchen and slide her plate of cookies directly into the bin.
Dominic is back by the time the doorbell rings for a second time, announcing the arrival of the so-called psychic. Part of me still feels sceptical, convinced that this is someone just out to take advantage of Fran and Dominic. The other part of me is slightly terrified, half hopeful that she will tell us something that will lead us to Laurel, half frightened that she’ll reveal something about me. About before. As the bell rings, Fran jumps and then gets to her feet. Some of her excitement seems to have worn off a little now and I hear her clearing her throat before she answers the door, a sure sign of her nervousness. Kelly slopes over to the armchair in the corner, out of sight, but still present, balancing her small notebook and pen on the mantelpiece.
