Have You Seen Her

by Lisa Hall

  ‘But . . . you could have simply left. Taken Laurel and started again.’

  ‘Ha!’ Fran snorts. ‘I know what happens when people get divorced, Anna. I watched it happen with my parents. My father left, and he took it all, he left my mother with nothing. There was no way I was going to end up destitute while Dominic and bloody Pamela were living it up. And how long before Pamela decided she wanted Laurel too? You know Dominic wanted her to have an abortion?’

  ‘Yes, she told me that, that day when I confronted her, but honestly Fran, this is . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me what this is!’ she hisses at me. ‘You have no idea. Dominic was violent to me, he hurt me, and I couldn’t risk him hurting Laurel too, so I had to get rid of him.’

  I say nothing, as she rambles on, convinced by her own lies.

  ‘I was in touch with Polly, but obviously I couldn’t tell Dom that. I told her how he was, and she told me she could help me. We met in London a few evenings, just to get together the logistics of the plan. She would hire a car that looks vaguely similar to Dominic’s and she would wait in the lane on the night of the bonfire. I was to text Dominic from an unknown number and make out as though the message was from Pamela. I knew he’d go running, and when she didn’t turn up, well . . . I didn’t know he’d already arranged to meet her.’ Her face darkens. ‘There was every chance that things would go wrong, but then I would simply claim that Polly had come back, and I was delighted to see her, that we had decided to bury the hatchet. Instead, when Laurel followed me to the toilets, it was the perfect opportunity. I handed her over to Polly through a gap in the fence, and it was sheer luck that a witness saw Laurel getting into a car that could have been Dominic’s. In the dark, and from the back, a VW Touran looks a similar shape to a Porsche Cayenne. It almost went horribly wrong when she said it was dark-coloured instead of silver.’

  I could testify to that – hadn’t I thought it was Dominic’s car on the drive when I first arrived? ‘But, Fran, all of this . . . hurt and upset. I honestly thought Laurel was dead. And Dominic . . . you’d really let him go to prison for something he hadn’t done? All because you thought he would leave you?’

  ‘But he would have been guilty, Anna,’ Fran snaps, ‘he would have been guilty of ruining Laurel’s life when he swanned off with his fancy piece, and left her to a lifetime of scraping by, always making do. And then what if he’d come back for her? Lured her away from me with all his false promises, to go and live with him and Pamela, leaving me all alone? I had to punish him, to make sure he was off the scene for good. I took the yellow sock that day, while you were out at the supermarket. Laurel did have a nosebleed that morning, but you weren’t here to see it. I just held the sock against her nose for a moment, sufficient to give a big enough stain. I knew the fresh flowers in the hallway would get her hayfever going, and even though I hated myself for effectively giving her a nosebleed, I had to do it. All I had to do then was hide it in his car.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘I thought you’d caught me that day, coming out of the garage. I grabbed the wine in a panic. I was the one who put those hideous pictures of those poor children on his computer – that was Polly’s idea. She said it would make sure they really were suspicious of his motives.’ She gives a sad smile, and for a brief second, I almost feel sorry for her, until I think about how cruel, how calculating she has been.

  ‘Can I see her? Can I see Laurel?’ I say, nausea making my stomach roil and saliva spurt into my mouth. I had no idea how wicked Fran could be, and all the time I was living under the same roof as her. ‘Just one last time. Please.’

  ‘Absolutely not. No, Anna, I can’t let you do that.’ She shakes her head, her perfect bob bouncing above her shoulders.

  ‘Really?’ I slide my mobile from my pocket and wave it in her direction. ‘I want to see her, Fran. I want to see for myself that she’s OK. Otherwise I think I should probably call the police now and have them come and see what really happened to Laurel.’ My pulse thunders in my ears as I hope that she doesn’t call my bluff.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she sighs, as if dealing with a demanding toddler. ‘There’s no need for that, Anna. You don’t need to call anyone. But you look at her from the doorway – you don’t go in, and you don’t touch her.’ Fran turns, and I follow her up the narrow, twisting staircase to the top landing. She pushes open the second door, revealing a single bed, lit by a small pink nightlight. Ignoring every word she just said, confident that she won’t stop me, not if it risks waking Laurel, I take Bom from Fran’s arms and creep across the carpeted floor, leaning over the small bed to see Laurel’s sleeping face, her hair a bird’s nest tangle of blonde curls. I tuck Bom in next to her, as I’d done so many times at the house in South Oxbury and return to the doorway.

  As I reach the top of the stairs, I look around, wondering where Polly is. The door to the room next to Laurel’s is tightly closed, but the one at the end of the landing is slightly ajar, and I see the edge of Fran’s dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. The door next to Laurel’s room is slightly open, revealing a glimpse of a bathroom inside, a bottle of Matey on the side of the bath.

  ‘You need to go,’ Fran whispers, ushering me down the stairs. ‘I should never have let you in here.’ I don’t remind her of the fact that she didn’t let me in, I forced my way in.

  At the bottom I turn back to Fran, eyeing her closely. There is none of the stress I have seen etched into her face over the past few weeks – stress that I now know was from keeping her biggest secret ever, not from worry about where her daughter might be. Her skin is smooth and unlined, and the dark circles beneath her eyes have disappeared. I think of Dominic, dishevelled and unshaven, gaunt from sudden weight loss, and I know that Fran will be gone from here by the morning, Laurel too.

  ‘I have to tell the police, you know that, Fran, don’t you?’ I say, my eyes never leaving her face. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Dominic can’t spend the rest of his life in prison for something he didn’t do.’

  Fran’s eyes go wide for a moment, before she gives a soft laugh. ‘Oh, Anna, you silly girl. You really don’t know, do you?’

  The air around us thickens for a moment, and I cock my head on one side, trying to figure out what she means.

  ‘I don’t know what?’ I say eventually.

  ‘Hmm, I suppose the news hasn’t broken quite yet.’ She turns her wrist to check her watch, and then leans over to turn on the television, the BBC News at Ten appearing on the screen. ‘I had a phone call from the police. Very distressing.’ She turns up the volume, and a news reporter stands in front of the prison Dominic is being held at on remand, the cold making his nose red and his eyes water, as he reports that alleged child abductor Dominic Jessop was found dead in his cell earlier today.

  ‘What . . .? Fran, what?’ I turn to her, bewildered, shock making me stumble over my words. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was attacked in his cell, by another inmate. They don’t like people who hurt children in prison,’ she says remotely, leaning forward to flick the television back off. ‘The police called to tell me after dinner this evening. Obviously, Dominic didn’t make it, so now there’s no need for a trial.’

  A low moaning fills my ears, and it takes me a moment to realise that the strange noise is coming from me. ‘Oh God, Fran, this is awful, I have to go, I have to tell the police.’ I get up, fear and shock causing me to trip over my own feet, and I stagger, knocking my shins against the coffee table and making me hiss with pain.

  ‘Anna, don’t be so ridiculous.’ Fran grasps me tightly by the upper arms. ‘If you go to the police now, what do you think will happen to Laurel?’ She tightens her grip and I wince, her fingernails digging deep into the skin on my upper arms, as she drags me towards the front door. ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? If you tell the police what I did, they’ll arrest me. Dominic is dead, Anna, so what happens then? Laurel will be left without any parents, she’ll be taken into care. Is that what you want for her?’

  ‘B
ut . . . what you did . . . it’s wrong, so wrong, you can’t be allowed . . .’ I cry out, as she slaps me around the face, her palm meeting my cheek with a crack.

  ‘Think, Anna,’ she hisses, her face pushed right into mine, as she shakes me hard. ‘Do you love Laurel? Because if you do, you won’t go to the police. You won’t let them take Laurel into care. Understand?’

  I shake my head, my whole body shaking as fear and adrenaline overtake me. ‘I won’t say anything, I promise. Please.’ Fran hustles me towards my car, opening the driver’s door and pushing me towards the seat.

  ‘Remember, Anna, not a word to anyone. Otherwise Laurel will be taken away for good. Forget you came here. Forget you saw me, forget about Laurel. Forget all of it.’

  EPILOGUE

  Moonlight sends a shaft of silvery light between the gap in the thin curtains, into Laurel’s bedroom, an eerie glow passing over her face, making her skin appear white and ghostly. My heart twists at the sight of her, relieved to be with her again after so many weeks apart. My girl. She can’t stay here now though, that much is obvious.

  I start to creep across the threadbare carpet, careful not to wake Polly in the room next door, sure that the thundering of my pulse will wake the entire household. Reaching down, I gently pull the duvet away from where it is tucked under Laurel’s chin and scoop her awkwardly into my arms. Stirring, she murmurs slightly, snuggling closer into my neck. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, ever since she was a baby, and she settles back into my arms almost immediately. I want to cry as I breathe in her familiar smell, of baby shampoo and biscuits, and I drop a tiny kiss on the top of her head, sure now that she won’t wake up, before I creep back towards the bedroom door. Those weeks without her felt like a lifetime.

  I hesitate for a moment at the top of the stairs, my arms already beginning to ache with the weight of Laurel’s solid little body in my arms, feeling a slight pang of guilt at uprooting her, pulling her away again from what she’s become used to, before I give myself an internal shake pushing the thought away. I’m doing the right thing, taking her away from here tonight. It’s for her own good. Her own safety.

  Carefully I start downstairs, testing each stair with my foot before I put my weight on it fully, anxious in case the floorboards creak. Polly is asleep merely feet away, and any tiny noise could wake her. I make it downstairs without a peep, my heart galloping in my chest, and carefully slide open the front door, careful not to bang Laurel’s head as I squeeze through the gap.

  The wind picks up as I tiptoe across the gravel to where my car waits, the doors already unlocked in preparation for my journey, and I freeze as the outside porch light pings on, sending a warm yellow glow across the gravel driveway towards me. My pulse flutters an insistent beat in my temples, my fingers slick with sweat, and I shift Laurel uncomfortably in my arms, as my biceps start to burn with the effort of carrying her. A fox darts across the path from the front door, his movement the action that set off the automatic porch light, and I curse myself for not thinking to turn it off before leaving.

  I wait for a few seconds, my breath frozen in my chest, sure that Polly will appear in the doorway at any moment, shouting blue murder. Nothing happens. The light pings off again, and I am swamped with darkness, thick and velvety, surrounding me like a cloak. My heart rate returns to normal, and moving quickly, I tuck Laurel into the car, covering her little body with the blanket that I left there expressly for this purpose. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I take a huge, shaky breath, wiping my slick palms on my thighs, the thick denim of my jeans soaking up the dampness before I push the car into neutral and let it gently coast down the driveway onto the dirt track, until it is safe for me to start the engine. I don’t look in the rear-view mirror as I drive away. I don’t ever want to look back from this moment on.

  Laurel sleeps all the way as I drive as close to the speed limit as I dare, along the A11 before picking up the M20 at Dartford. It’s still full dark as we head towards our destination, the night sky clear and sprinkled with thousands of tiny stars, barely visible in the light pollution from the street lamps. My eyes are feeling gritty and dry from tiredness, and I want to weep with relief as I see the first motorway sign for the Eurotunnel.

  A short while before we reach our junction on the motorway, I spy a service station, dark and secluded with only a few lorries parked up for the night. It’s closed, the early hour meaning no one will be around just yet, so I park in a space at the far end of the car park, glancing around to make sure I am not spotted by some early bird trucker, before I lean into the back seat to check on Laurel. She is still fast asleep, her breath whistling slightly in and out, her hair ruffled and tangled. I tuck the blanket around her completely, so that should anyone peer into the back seat it looks as though I have a pile of old rugs on the seat, no child to be seen anywhere. I straighten up and check my watch. I have twenty minutes until check-in closes. Stepping back into the car, I inspect the back seat once more, and reassured that no one will see any sign of Laurel, I pull back onto the motorway.

  My stomach gives a tiny lurch as I see the motorway sign I’ve been waiting for, and I indicate left, pulling into the slip road and following the signs. I’ve booked our journey online, so I don’t need to stop at a manned booth, and once my ticket is printed I head towards passport control. This is it. Make or break time.

  ‘Passport please, madam.’ The border control guy already seems bored, and I’m catching the first train out of Folkestone this morning. I try not to let my fingers tremble as I hand my passport over, doing my best to rustle up a ghost of a smile. ‘Anyone else travelling with you?’ He leans over and gives the back of the car a cursory once-over.

  ‘No,’ I say, my throat dry. ‘Just me.’ Laurel’s passport is back at the house in South Oxbury – not that I could have ever used it to travel, not with the whole country knowing her name. I hold my breath as he peers at my passport once more, his eyes going from my face to my photo and back again.

  ‘Have a safe trip.’ He waves me through, and I almost want to vomit I am so relieved. I give him a shaky smile and pull away, as calmly as I can, heading towards the train, and Calais.

  By the time the train reaches Calais, I have managed to snooze for half an hour, waking only as the guy on the train scans my ticket, worry gripping my stomach as I pray that Laurel won’t wake. She doesn’t, and as I drive off the train and on to the motorway, the sky is lightening, tiny, wispy clouds dotting the deep blue, with streaks of pink and orange marking the sky as dawn arrives, announcing a new day. The first day of the rest of our lives.

  A sense of calm washes over me, as I look in the rear-view mirror at the little bundle on the back seat. I did it. I got her away, to keep her safe with me. Tears spring to my eyes, blurring my vision and I have to blink them away, quickly. The roads are empty, and I put my foot down, eager to get as far away from England as I possibly can. I am humming along to the radio, the music turned right down low, when I hear Laurel moving around in the backseat. As I glance in the rear-view mirror, her tousled head appears from the beneath the blankets, and she looks crumpled and confused for a moment, her cheeks flushed with sleep. She frowns for a minute, obviously bemused by waking up in a car, and then her eyes meet mine in the mirror and she gives me a little grin, and I see the gap in her teeth where she’s lost a bottom front tooth.

  ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ I smile back at her, giving her a little wink.

  ‘Hello, Anna,’ she smiles back, ‘where are we going?’

  I know what you’re probably thinking. That I’m no better than Fran, that my behaviour is even more appalling if anything, but I’ll fight you on that. I’ll defend my actions to the end. You didn’t see the look on Fran’s face when she spoke about Dominic that night – it was the face of a woman deranged – unhinged, for sure. The woman is a surefire psychopath. There was no way I could leave Laurel with her. I didn’t know what would happen to her – would Fran someday decide that Laurel had slighted her the way
she thought Dominic had? What would happen then? There was only one course of action for me, as I saw it, so I took the first opportunity I had, waiting until all the lights had gone out in the cottage before I gently broke in through the old front door. A lifetime of losing my keys served me well.

  I’m taking Laurel to my aunt’s house in France. We’ll be safe there – Fran doesn’t even know the house exists, and I’ve already told my mum I’ll be here, and that I’m writing a novel, that I need peace and quiet. I’ll teach Laurel to speak French, and we’ll get by on the little money I have saved. She’ll grow up in a safe, healthy environment, where she won’t have to watch what she says, or tiptoe around, terrified in case she starts a row. She’ll be loved. I’ll be nervous for a while, of course I will, but it will soon settle down once we’re accepted as part of the village. I turn into the secluded lane that leads to my aunt’s house, a ramshackle farmhouse built over a hundred and fifty years ago.

  Pulling up next to the house, I pause for a moment, allowing myself to think briefly about Fran, and whether she is awake yet. I wonder if she’s realised that Laurel is not in her bed, if she ran into Polly’s room to wake her. And I wonder what she will do about it – after all, it’s not as if she can report Laurel missing, is it?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book has only made it out into the world thanks to a cracking team of brilliant people – Kate Mills, Lisa Milton, Celia Lomas and Victoria Moynes, to name a few. Thank you so much for all your input and work . . . I still feel so incredibly lucky to part of such an amazing team.

  Thank you to my lovely agent, Lisa Moylett, and all of the team at CMM who work so tirelessly to make sure my books are the best they can possibly be, reining me in when things get a little bit off the wall (sorry!).