by Heidi Perks
CHARLOTTE
On Thursday evening Charlotte stood at her bedroom window and watched Angela step out of her car, gazing up at the house opposite with its FOR SALE board attached to the gate. She knew what Angela would be thinking. There were a few coveted roads in Chiddenford and this was one of them. The pretty cul-de-sacs with their beautiful houses sat on plots much more generous than in other parts of the village. Eventually Angela turned and walked toward Charlotte’s home.
Charlotte smiled warmly as she opened the door and tried to gauge the expression on the detective’s face. “The kids are still playing outside. I should get them ready for bed, but it’s such a nice evening.” She looked at her watch. It was already 7:00 p.m. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Just water would be lovely, thank you,” Angela said as she stepped into the hallway. “Wow, this is amazing.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte gave a small smile. Everyone commented on her grand hallway, and usually she was proud of it. But it seemed so small in importance now.
“So, how can I help you?” Charlotte asked, leading Angela to the kitchen where she filled a tumbler with water and handed it to her. “Please sit down.” She gestured to a bar stool and Angela perched on it, resting her glass on the island in front of her, continuing to gape at the expanse of Charlotte’s kitchen.
“Have you heard anything from Harriet?” Angela asked, taking a sip and carefully placing the glass down.
“No, not since I went to her house after the fair. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered if she’s come to see you, or spoken to you,” Angela said.
Charlotte shook her head. “I haven’t heard from her once.”
“You see, she isn’t at the house,” Angela went on. “I arranged to be there at four this afternoon. Harriet’s never not been in, especially when she knows I’m coming.”
Charlotte pulled out a stool for herself on the other side of the island. There was obviously more bothering Angela than Harriet not being at home. The thought of her visitor the previous night was beginning to set off alarm bells.
“Brian was here last night,” she said.
“Brian?” Angela looked surprised.
Charlotte shuddered at the memory of him waiting for her on the other side of her front hedge. “He was outside my house when I was going out. He wanted to speak to me in his car. He wouldn’t come into the house, I don’t know why.”
“What did he want?” Angela asked, leaning forward.
“That’s the strange thing. All he kept talking about was Harriet and how much he loved her. He wanted to know if she ever talked to me about their marriage, which she never did. It was an odd conversation.”
Angela looked as confused as Charlotte felt. “Did you get the hint they’d had an argument?”
“I wondered that, but he didn’t say as much. He was just a bit—” Charlotte gestured a hand in the air. “Weird. I assumed it was the stress of Alice and everything—but like I said, it was Harriet he was talking about, not Alice.”
Angela sat back and reached into her handbag, pulling out a notepad.
“Has something else happened?” Charlotte asked, trying to see what the detective was writing but unable to make anything out.
Angela looked up. “Nothing in particular. But the house was a little disrupted when I got there this afternoon.”
“How do you mean ‘disrupted’?” The word made her cold. Harriet’s home was always so neat and organized.
“It was a mess. Things had been disturbed,” Angela said, pen poised in the air. “When I looked through the living room window, I could see all of Alice’s toys strewn across the carpet.”
“But what did Brian say?” Charlotte asked. “How did he explain it?” She’d always thought he was the one who liked it so tidy. Harriet never seemed to mind a bit of a mess, you only had to look in her handbag to see that. But still, there was no way Harriet would have thrown Alice’s toys around.
“That’s the strange thing,” Angela said. “He wasn’t there either. There’s no sign of Harriet or Brian and I have no idea where either of them have gone.”
NOW
The detective wants to know why I didn’t tell anyone where I was going when I walked out of my house yesterday. He wants to know why, twelve days after my daughter had disappeared, I got up and drove off without telling my husband or Angela or my best friend, who is currently sitting in another room being questioned by his colleague.
I tell him the same story over and over, but each time he asks me again, only he frames the question slightly differently, hoping he might catch me in a lie. I fear he soon will.
Eventually Detective Lowry sighs and suggests a “comfort break.”
“Is there any news yet?” I ask again as I’m leaving the room. “Could you find out for me, please?” I cannot bring myself to say the words.
He nods, and for a moment I see a fleeting look in his eyes that resembles compassion. He hesitates by the door as if about to tell me something. I hold my breath, but in the end he says nothing.
There is news. There is something he isn’t sharing.
Detective Lowry heads one way up the hallway and I turn in the other direction toward the bathroom. It’s been thirteen days since I’ve been with Alice. Before the fair, not thirteen hours had passed when I hadn’t been able to look at her face and hold her in my arms. That’s what tears me apart the most: not being able to touch her.
The air in the hallway becomes so thin it’s hard to breathe. I reach for the wall to steady myself as a sharp pain splits across my forehead. The bright lights flicker and dim, and my vision narrows. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, though they offered me a biscuit an hour ago. I should have forced it down but I couldn’t, and now I regret it as I feel the pain of my empty stomach.
The thought of staying here a moment longer is almost unbearable. With one hand on the wall I feel my way along, a few more paces, until I reach the bathroom door. Pushing it open, I almost fall inside and clasp on to the basin’s cool white enamel with both hands.
Eventually I pull my head up and focus on my reflection until I become clear. In some ways it seems like only yesterday I slunk out of my class and was staring at myself in the hotel mirror, waiting for news that my plan was under way. In others, it feels like a lifetime has passed.
I turn the cold handle and drench my hands, splashing water over my face until the sharp pain recedes. I have no choice but to pull myself together. No choice but to stick to my story, despite what Lowry isn’t telling me.
BEFORE
HARRIET
I woke at seven thirty to find a note had been pushed under the door of my room to say the garage owner had called and my car would be ready in two hours. Finally, things were turning in my favor. By lunchtime I would be in Cornwall.
I wolfed down a breakfast of greasy eggs and undercooked bacon made by the owner of the B&B, and accepted his offer of a ride to the garage, where I waited longer than I’d been told. My car wasn’t ready for another hour, but I was finally back on the road by ten thirty.
With the sun trying to break through the clouds as I headed west, I turned the radio up and allowed my thoughts to oscillate between what lay ahead and what was behind me.
Best case I would find Alice safe and if I did, I would turn around and go straight back to Dorset. Last night I’d decided I would tell Brian and Angela that I’d needed to get away from the house. That I’d needed one night on my own away from the prying eyes and invasive questions, where nobody knew me or my story. I’d tell them I drove without thinking about where I was heading and would give them the name of the B&B owner who could vouch for me. I didn’t know if they’d believe me, but it was all I had.
With the rest of the journey passing without mishap, I soon approached the tiny village of West Aldell, where the familiar, unnerving surge of dread resurfaced. I had no idea what I was walking into: whether my daughter would be there; if anything had happened to her.
I turned off the main road and drove down the winding lane that eventually led to a short street of clapboard-fronted shops and cafés. Passing the White Horse pub, I slowed so I wouldn’t miss the right turn that would otherwise lead me to the beach.
This lane was even narrower and lined with hedges as it climbed a steep hill, twisting to the left. There were two unloved houses on the right before I finally spotted a sign for Elderberry Cottage. The wooden name was stuck to a post and jammed at an angle into the bushes out front. I assumed that if I carried on, I’d wind up at a dead end at the top of the cliff, as my dad had told me.
It was 12:30 p.m. when I finally pulled up alongside the hedge opposite the cottage, wincing at the scratch of its branches against the side of the car. There was little space to park without jutting into the center of the lane.
So this was it. Sadly, it looked exactly like it had on the website.
I didn’t bother checking the deserted road for oncoming cars as I crossed and passed through a gate hanging miserably on one hinge and leading to a cobbled path with overgrown grass peeking through its cracks. On the front door a bell dangled dubiously on a wire. I took a deep breath and knocked.
“Please be in, Dad,” I muttered. “Please God, let Alice be here.”
I knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. To my right a net curtain partially hid the living room behind it, but I could make out the red velvet armchair and faded brown two-seater sofa I’d seen on the website. The cottage looked like it had been caught in a time trap. I imagined a thin layer of dust coating the china figurines that were lined up on the mantel like a row of soldiers.
I banged on the door again until my hand felt bruised. My heart echoed back with each thump I made on the peeling green wood. How had I allowed her out of my sight? Yes, she was with her grandfather, but she’d only known him six months. I barely knew him.
“Where are you, Dad?” I cried at the closed door, pressing my forehead against it in despair. “Where’s Alice?”
When I pulled away I noticed the side gate was ajar. It led to the back of the house, weaving through tubs of withered plants that stood on a slab of concrete. Through the glass panel of the shabby blue back door, I could see the kitchen, with mugs left on the table, a few bowls stacked in the sink.
After I tried the handle, the door swung open and I tentatively stepped inside. “Dad?” I called out. “Alice?” The only response was the loud ticking of a grandfather clock.
My legs felt like liquid as I drifted through the house, one step at a time, climbing the staircase, its floorboards creaking beneath me. I called out their names again as I reached the top. Now the clock’s ticking was much fainter.
They weren’t here, I was certain of that. But had they been? Were they here this morning?
I glanced into a bedroom with a double bed neatly made, a purple quilt tucked over the top. Next to it was a small box room, half the size of Alice’s at home. A single bed had a green blanket laid carefully over its end. Had Alice slept here?
My hand shook as I reached out to touch the sheet, frightened there’d be no evidence that she’d been here. One tug ripped the sheets back. “Oh God.” I held a hand over my mouth as the other touched the corner of the fabric that peeked out from under the pillow. Pulling slowly, I found a neatly folded nightie dotted with pretty pink owls and a frilled hem. I pressed it against my face, breathing it in. There may have been the faintest scent of Alice, but I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Exhilarated by that small find, I went over to the chest and pulled out its drawers one by one. Balled socks, a new pack of girls’ pants, a couple of T-shirts. Then in the last one Alice’s pink chiffon skirt with the embroidered birds and, neatly placed next to it, her little blue shoes with their pinpricked stars.
I let out a cry as I sank to the floor, a wave of nausea rushing over me. This was a good thing, I told myself. It meant she’d been here. My dad had at least brought her here as promised. And he had bought her a pretty nightie and new clothes. I had to take comfort in that, I thought, grabbing a handful of shells from the pile on the dresser. And now I was convinced I knew where to find them.
Racing down the stairs, I went back through the kitchen and out the back door, leaving it unlocked like I’d found it in case they didn’t have a key. I ran down the lane until it came to an abrupt stop at the top of the cliff. Only then did I pause and inhale deep lungfuls of air.
Over the edge of the cliff was a sheer drop. Below me waves rolled in, their white foam washing up on the sand before being dragged out again. The tide was out, revealing a small slip of beach, and while it wasn’t windy it looked like there was a strong current.
I stepped back before I lost my balance and started down the steep, grassy path that wound down the cliff to my left. Intermittent stone steps had been laid in places where the ground was rough and I had to carefully find my footing. It was the type of walk Alice would’ve loved.
At the bottom the path joined the main lane that ran through the village. Opposite was a small deserted parking lot and to the right a wide path led onto the beach, which looked wider than it had from the top, and I wondered how much of it would disappear once the tide came in.
The beach was almost empty, as my father had said, apart from a little boy playing with a fishing net at the farthest edge of the cove, watched by a couple engrossed in animated conversation.
I looked one way, then the other. Had I really expected to find them here? Seeing the box of shells in the cottage had made me certain I’d find Alice and my dad on the beach. Only they weren’t.
My feet circled and circled as I refused to accept that they weren’t here. Everything started to spin and I fell to the sand in a heap of desperate tears. A sound escaped, but I wasn’t sure it had come from me.
“Are you okay?” A voice drifted toward me but I ignored it as I dug my hands deeper into the sand. Never had I felt so frightened or so alone.
“Excuse me?”
Go away.
Thoughts swarmed my head like locusts until they turned the sky black.
“Do you think we should call a doctor?” The voice was approaching. Nearer and nearer.
I buried my head into my knees.
Go away. Go away. Go away.
“Do you need help?” A hand touched my side, making me sit up. The light from the sun was harsh and I was forced to shield it with my hands.
“I’m fine,” I said, my legs trembling as I forced myself to stand. “Thank you,” I added, brushing the sand from my jeans.
“Can we get anything for you?” she asked. A man was right behind her, the little boy with his fishing net trailing reluctantly after.
“No, I’m okay,” I said. “Maybe I had too much to drink last night.” I attempted a smile. The woman nodded but didn’t smile back, and eventually she allowed the man to take her arm and called the boy to follow as they walked away.
I waited until they had disappeared and then retraced my steps quickly back up the path, past the parking lot, and up the cliff path. Tears raced down my cheeks until I was sobbing great gulps of air that made me double over in pain. When I reached the top I looked out to the sea, mouthing my daughter’s name.
What should I do? Alice was now genuinely missing, but there was no one I could tell. The police would say, “We know she’s missing, Harriet, she disappeared nearly two weeks ago.”
“Alice!” I cried quietly. “Baby, where are you?” I went back to the cottage on unsteady legs, letting myself in through the back door again. “Dad? Alice?” I screamed into the cold, silent air as I collapsed onto a wooden chair in the kitchen. “Where have you gone?”
CHARLOTTE
On Friday morning Charlotte placed the phone facedown on the kitchen table, having just hung up with the school. Molly was sick and asking to come home. She had claimed a tummy ache that morning, but Molly occasionally did that if there was a chance of staying at home. Usually it turned out to be nothing.
> She told the receptionist she’d be there shortly, but it messed up her plans. Evie was in nursery and Charlotte was supposed to be meeting Captain Hayes at the police station in fifteen minutes. He had called her that morning asking her to come in “for a chat,” admitting that neither Harriet nor Brian had returned home all night.
“I don’t know any more than I told Angela,” she said. “But of course I’ll come in if you think I can help.”
“I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t,” the detective said. “I’ll see you at two p.m.”
Charlotte hung up. His sarcasm grated and it made her wonder if he thought she was lying and knew where Harriet and Brian were. Now she was going to have to call him en route to the school and explain that not only would she be late, Molly would be with her too. She could picture his exasperated face when she gave him the news.
Charlotte grabbed the car keys and picked up her purse. Rifling through it to check she had her wallet, she was just about to leave when her cell rang from the bottom of her bag, flashing a number she didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” Charlotte cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder as she fiddled to close the zipper on her bag. It was forever jamming and she knew if she tugged it much harder the whole thing would snap.
“Charlotte?”
She froze. “Harriet? Is that you?”
“I need your help,” her friend said stoically.
“Thank God you’re okay. Where are you? Where’s Brian? Why didn’t you go home last night?” Her questions tumbled out.
“Charlotte, I need your help,” Harriet whispered.
Charlotte dropped her bag and pressed the phone closer to her ear. Wherever Harriet was, it was difficult to hear her. “Harriet, what’s happened? Is Brian with you?”
“Brian?” There was a short pause. “No, Brian’s not with me.” Another pause and then, “I don’t know what to do,” she cried.
