Mummy's Little Secret

by M. A. Hunter

  The image here takes longer to load, and when it does a pair of emerald eyes fills the screen, hair a chestnut brown, but hanging just below the ears. I gasp, as three-year-old Mia gazes at something just off camera. It isn’t a full-front exposure, so it is difficult to tell whether the nose is quite right, and given the image must be nearly two years old, it’s possible that the tone of her skin might have changed slightly, particularly if she’d been living further north when the snap was captured. I close my eyes and picture the terror in Daisy’s green-brown stare as she whispered those four little words in the playground on Thursday. My eyes snap open and I focus on the face before me.

  Could it be?

  The doubt in my mind is far softer than it had been with Cindy and Jacinta.

  Am I crazy, or have I actually discovered who Daisy really is? I push the laptop away and take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart, and to consider the discovery in a more cautious manner. I try to think of all the reasons that Daisy cannot be Mia. Morag would have to have presented the local authority with a copy of Daisy’s birth certificate to register her for school. How would they cover the fact that she had been born with the name Mia, but was now called Daisy? Not impossible, but it poses issues.

  What would Charlie say? He’d tell me I was seeing things that aren’t there. He’d say my anxiety about Daisy’s confession is brought on by the medication, like Dr Tegan suggested, and the fact that I have unresolved questions about my own adoption. He doesn’t know I’m no longer taking those pills, and that my focus has never been clearer.

  I pull the laptop back and look at the face again. On second glance I am slightly less convinced that Mia is Daisy, but not enough not to dig further. Scrolling down I read the case history. Mia was living in Belfast when her mother was murdered. When the police discovered the body, an uncle reported that Mia was missing, and is now keen to be reunited with his niece. There have been reported sightings of Mia in the northeast and northwest of England, and even as far north as Edinburgh.

  It can’t be a coincidence that the public have reported seeing Mia in Scotland. My pulse quickens again. I’m not imagining this picture, the facial similarities between the girls, and the locations in their backstories. It isn’t going to be enough to convince cynical Charlie and Rosie. I need something more concrete before I present them with my belief. I need someone who knows how to dig deeper and find meaning in unrelated facts.

  Reaching for my handbag, which is still squashed into the cushion of my wheelchair, I remove my mobile and search for Gail’s number. The phone connects after four rings.

  ‘Hey, Jess,’ she says, her voice sounding far away. ‘Now’s not a great time, as I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?’

  I look at Mia’s emerald eyes. ‘No, I need your help right now, Gail. Please, it’s important.’

  The harshness of my tone has surprised even me, and I’m relieved when Gail doesn’t instantly disconnect the call.

  I hear keys tapped, and then her voice is louder, the phone now properly in place and her attention no longer distracted. ‘What’s going on? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, Gail, but I think I’ve stumbled into something and I think you may be the only person who can help me find the truth.’

  She listens patiently as I explain that first encounter with Daisy, how terrified she looked as she spoke those four little words, how that fear had grown as Morag had approached, and then how secretive Morag is about her past. I don’t miss out a single step, and move straight into what I’ve found online, and the background of Mia.

  ‘You think this missing girl could be Daisy?’ Gail concludes, reading her notes back.

  I’m delighted she has yet to question my sanity, but like any true reporter, Gail can sniff out great stories.

  I look at Mia’s face again. ‘I’m not saying it is definitely her, but the resemblance is tough to ignore. It all fits: the date she disappeared, the fact that she’s been spotted in areas I know Morag and Angus were based. I know I sound like some paranoid loon, but what if it is her, and we manage to get Mia back to her uncle and family?’

  There is a long pause on the line. I’ve never known Gail be so quiet for so long. My heart sinks as the silence continues. She must be trying to find the right words to let me down.

  ‘I’m on the site now,’ she eventually says. ‘I think I’ve found the girl you’re talking about. Dark hair, from Belfast, right?’

  ‘That’s her,’ I agree quickly.

  ‘She’d be five, according to this. Does that fit?’

  ‘She started in reception today and it’s her fifth birthday on Friday from what Morag told me.’

  ‘Leave this with me and I’ll make some calls and see what else I can find out about this Morag and Angus Kilbride. Are we still meeting on Friday for payday lunch? I can share what I’ve found then, if that’s okay?’ Gail asks.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I reply, my eyes watering with happy tears.

  ‘Great. Unless there’s anything else, I really must go, Jess, I’m sorry.’

  I return the phone to my handbag with a sense of satisfaction, but the laptop beeps to say the battery is nearly drained. There is a contact form for anyone with information about Mia, and without thinking I open it and type in my belief that she is alive and well and living in Northwood.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Before – Morag

  Arriving at the school, I’m half-expecting to see all three divisions of the emergency services waiting for me. I could just imagine Tommy rocking up here, demanding to see Daisy and telling anyone who’ll listen just what Angus and I did. The playground is empty, however, and as I make my way to the school office, sectioned away from the main school grounds, my mind returns to exactly what could have warranted the school calling me in the middle of the day.

  ‘An incident with Daisy’ could be any number of things: a bout of sickness; an argument with another child; an accident resulting in an injury requiring medical attention. My heart is racing as I approach the window into the administrator’s office.

  ‘I had a telephone call about my daughter Daisy,’ I say, failing to keep the anxiety from my voice.

  The administrator looks at me dumbstruck, like she cannot believe someone as old as me could be responsible for any student attending the school. Or it could just be that we’ve never met before and so she doesn’t know who Daisy is.

  ‘What is your child’s name?’ she says.

  ‘Daisy Kilbride,’ I say, adding, ‘Today’s her first day.’

  Something fires in the woman’s mind, and she snaps her fingers at me. ‘Oh yes, I remember. I was the one who called. Can you step inside here for a moment, please?’

  Doing as instructed, I head through the large fire door to the right of the window, and find little more than a box room, with filing cabinets lining every wall. There are no windows in the room, save for the hatch we’ve just spoken through, and so the room is heavily reliant on the overhead filament, which gives off an irritating whirr, like there is a wasp’s nest just beyond the stained ceiling tiles.

  The administrator is the wrong side of overweight, and the long denim skirt and knee-length black boots do little to compliment her figure. The thin woollen jumper accentuates her curves, and if she’d just smile a little, her frosty exterior would quickly diminish. Instead, she has the look of a woman bored by her chosen profession and only undertaking her duties in a half-arsed manner.

  ‘There’s a problem with the emergency contact paperwork Daisy brought in today,’ she says, reaching for a ring binder on the desk, and flipping through the thin plastic wallets inside, until she finds what she’s looking for and removes a sheet of paper. She places it on her desk, beckoning me to sit in the other remaining chair. I recognise Angus’s handwriting immediately, though the green form itself isn’t familiar.

  ‘One of the phone numbers listed – the one for you in fact – is saying it’s disconnected. The mobile number fo
r your husband is what I managed to reach you on this morning.’

  I knew Angus had removed the battery and SIM card from the previous burn phone, but I hadn’t realised he’d formally cancelled the number.

  ‘I lost my phone,’ I say quickly. ‘My husband has lent me his until we get a replacement.’

  She studies my face, before drawing a line through the number listed against the word ‘Mother’. ‘So, is this now your new number, or will you be getting a new phone, and this one returned to your husband?’

  I honestly don’t have an answer, and still don’t understand what has happened to Daisy. ‘I’ll probably get a new one at some point, but can you not just list this one for both of us?’

  She frowns. ‘We prefer to have alternative methods for contacting parents in case one of you is unavailable to talk. Well, like this morning for example. If you could let us have the new number as soon as you know it, we’ll get our records updated.’

  That can’t be the only reason they’ve called me in. They wouldn’t have known my old number was no longer working had they not tried to contact me in the first place. Plus, it seems a little over-the-top to call me in urgently for something so trivial.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ I ask anxiously.

  She studies the piece of paper. ‘Yes, there was a discrepancy with the date of birth on the form.’ She points her pen at the top section of the form. ‘You’ve listed Daisy’s date of birth as 3rd November 2013, but we have it recorded as 13th September 2014.’

  Angus must have tried to complete the form to save me the effort, but he’s put Daisy’s original date of birth, rather than the one we’d doctored on her birth certificate. I could kill him, but need to stay composed.

  Withdrawing my reading glasses, I study the date, straining to think of a legitimate excuse that won’t cause this woman to question our entire story. Like a house of cards, only a little breeze will be enough to bring all the lies tumbling down.

  ‘My husband completed the form,’ I say carefully, choosing to partially rely on the truth. ‘His memory isn’t what it once was. Wait till I tell him he put the wrong date of birth on the form.’ I chuckle light-heartedly. ‘He is terrible with dates; never remembers my birthday, nor our anniversary.’ I pause to check if she believes my excuse, or whether she’s about to signal for some troop of police to cart me away.

  Her face remains straight, giving nothing away. ‘So which date is correct?’

  ‘Her date of birth is 13th September. She turns five on Friday. Surely you’ve still got the copy of her birth certificate we supplied when applying for her place?’

  The administrator puts a line through the date on the sheet, and writes the new date in its place. ‘I’m going to need you to initial the two changes, so that our records show you wanted the changes made.’

  I take the pen and scribble my initials on the page. ‘Is there anything else?’

  She double-checks the form again, before slipping it back into the plastic wallet in the folder. She turns back, and there is just a hint of a smile. ‘That is all.’

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding for too long, and stand to leave.

  ‘Oh, no, wait,’ she calls out just as I’ve reached the door. ‘There was something else.’ She hands me a post-it note. ‘Daisy’s teacher Miss Danvers said Daisy didn’t bring a pair of wellington boots in with her today. It was part of the list of items each child is required to keep at the school for rainy days and the like. Can you make sure she brings some in tomorrow? Oh, and make sure her name is clearly written on the inside of the boot, in case any other child has the same pair.’

  I can picture the pair of wellington boots in a carrier bag on the staircase, but with everything going on this morning, I must have forgotten to pick them up.

  ‘I’ll make sure I remember them tomorrow,’ I promise, relieved to slip back out of the building. The temperature is stifling, and I can’t escape the feeling that I’m being watched, though I appear to be alone by the door.

  Chapter Fifty

  Now

  ‘Mike, we’ve got an ID on the victim,’ Polly said, slamming down the phone on her desk. ‘Confirmation should be coming through any minute,’ she added, approaching and pulling over a vacant chair. ‘That was Dr Murphy at the mortuary, and she’s had a hit on the victim’s dental records.’

  Mike refreshed the team inbox until the new email arrived. He opened the attachment and his eyes danced across the screen, searching for Charlie Donoghue’s name. He frowned when he couldn’t see it.

  ‘Who on earth is Tommy Chamberlain?’ Polly asked, eyes also glued to the screen.

  Mike sat back and found where she was reading. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t at first place why, and then he remembered the restraining order that Angus Kilbride’s name had been linked to. It couldn’t be the same person, yet he didn’t believe in coincidences. Loading MOSES, he typed in Kilbride’s name, and pointed for Polly to read.

  ‘There isn’t a lot here,’ she said. ‘You think this Tommy Chamberlain knows the Kilbrides then?’

  It was the only conclusion Mike could draw in the moment. ‘Find out what you can about him. Phone the copper who filed the original report.’ Mike pointed at the name. ‘Here you go: PS Rupert MacTavish. Ask him what he knows and see if they have a photograph on file they can send down to verify Dr Murphy’s findings.’

  Polly wheeled her chair away, leaving Mike to stand and head into the Incident Room, and wipe Charlie Donoghue’s name from beneath the dry-wipe board, replacing it with the name Tommy Chamberlain. A knock at the door caused him to turn.

  ‘Mike? Carla and I have managed to disprove Morag Kilbride’s alibi for yesterday afternoon,’ DS Nazia Hussain said. ‘She claimed she hadn’t returned home after collecting daughter Daisy from school, right? We have her on a neighbour’s security camera returning home shortly before four, and then there is no sign of her going back out. We have footage from the opposite end of the street confirming she didn’t leave the property, certainly not via the front of the property.’

  Mike frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Nazia stepped into the room and showed Mike the piece of paper in her hand, an aerial shot of the property. ‘There is a gate at the rear of the property, which leads to a footpath, which leads into a neighbouring estate. Morag Kilbride was home by 4pm, but wasn’t at the property when the first responders arrived, meaning she must have left via this rear exit somewhere between four and seven. It doesn’t put her in the house when the victim entered, but it does pose the question as to why she lied in her statement.’

  ‘We need to get her back in,’ Mike said affirmatively. ‘This time I want it done properly. I want her booked in, prints taken, and urgent confirmation from Scientific Services as to whether her prints match those on the knife. The blade was from a block in her kitchen, so I would expect there to be prints, but what I want to know is whether any were made post-trauma.’

  Nazia nodded and peeled away.

  Mike moved to the side of the Incident Room and called out to the team. ‘Our victim is one Tommy Chamberlain. I want to know everything about him: where he lived; how he knows Jess Donoghue and Morag Kilbride; what he was doing in that house last night; and why he wasn’t carrying a mobile phone or any identification. Can someone also tell me where the hell Charlie Donoghue is?’

  ‘I might be able to answer that,’ announced a voice from the far side of the office.

  Turning, Mike didn’t recognise the athletic woman in a charcoal-coloured business suit, her blonde hair scraped back into a high ponytail.

  ‘I’m PC Rosie Donoghue,’ the woman said. ‘My brother is downstairs in my car and he’s frantic with worry.’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Before – Jess

  Before I know it, the clock is showing it’s half past two and I need to collect Grace from school. I haven’t even eaten. In fact, the last few hours have passed with me not so much as moving from my chair
in my bedroom. Have I really been sitting here thinking about Morag and Daisy for that long? I’m sure I wasn’t asleep, but I can’t account for the lost time.

  My arms carry a residual ache from this morning’s exertion, but I push through the pain, and am a sweaty mess as I wheel in through the recently painted school gates. The playground is lined by close to a hundred casually dressed parents, eagerly awaiting first-day news from their little ones. I find a gap in the crowd, and stare out across the concrete, not certain which door Grace will emerge from.

  I wish I’d given myself more time to get here, so I wouldn’t look such a mess. I can see Nadine – perfect makeup, hair like she’s just stepped from the salon, and model-thin frame – a few metres away. She nods in my direction, before continuing a conversation with the woman next to her, whom I don’t recognise. To my right there is indistinguishable excited chatter, and I feel so lonely with nobody that I know well enough to chat to.

  I do hope Grace had a good day. She’s such a clever and outgoing girl that she’s probably managed to befriend everyone in her class already, but I remind myself that projecting my own expectations is dangerous, and I need to just wait and hear what she has to report. It is so warm today, and the sun’s rays burn down on all of us. I think I’ll take Grace for an ice-cream on the way home as a celebration of her surviving her first day, though that will mean having to take a detour on the way back, and I’m not sure my arms and spine can take it, but I want to spoil Grace, especially after the day I’ve had. At least she’s not lying to me yet.

  Minutes pass with no sign of Grace. The bell has sounded and the playground is filling with children, but where on earth is my daughter?

  I scan the playground for any sign of her. Maybe she pointed me out to Miss Danvers while I was distracted by Nadine. It is so difficult to distinguish any children from where I am seated, as the crowd of parents have now spilled from their boundary, and the playground is filled with different colours and shapes heading in a multitude of directions. It’s like watching bubbles fighting to be first to the top in a glass of lemonade.