The Disappearance of Katie Wren

by Cross,Amy

“So I can see your face!” I can't help sighing. “Katie, please try to think of this from my perspective. Don't you understand that I'm worried about you?”

  “Sure, but would the camera really satisfy you? Even if you could see my smiling face, you'd only find something else to worry about. It's your natural state.”

  “That's not entirely fair, I -”

  Suddenly I hear someone knocking on Katie's door again, followed by a faint creaking sound.

  “I'll be down soon,” she says. “I told you, I just have to talk to my mother first. I'll only be a couple more minutes, I promise.”

  There's a faint muffled mumble from whoever's in the room with her.

  “I don't know,” Katie replies.

  I feel a rush of panic in my chest.

  The mumbling voice continues for a moment.

  “Sure,” Katie continues, “but I don't know. Sorry, I don't know. I'm just talking to my mother, and I'll be down soon. Okay?”

  The voice says something else before falling silent, and a moment later I hear the door swinging shut.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “No-one.”

  “Give me a name, Katie.”

  “Why?”

  “What don't you know?”

  “Huh?”

  “You told him you don't know something,” I continue, unable to keep from panicking. This situation is starting to feel a little familiar. “Katie, please, just humor me. What was he asking you?”

  I wait, but for a moment there's no reply.

  “Katie -”

  “You're being weird, Mum,” she says with a sigh. “Come on, lighten up.”

  “Don't tell me to lighten up,” I reply, taking umbrage at her tone. “After everything that has happened over the past year, Katie, I think you can understand why I might be just a little concerned. If I have to come to London and -”

  “Don't you dare!”

  “Catherine Elizabeth Wren!” I say firmly. “You will not talk to me like that! I'm only -”

  I catch myself just in time. This whole conversation is running out of control and I can hear myself becoming shriller and shriller. I don't want to be this type of person, so I take a moment to compose myself. Still, the laptop's screen continues to show me a relentless, remorseless dark rectangle where I should be seeing my daughter's face. It's almost as if some force is determined to keep me from seeing her.

  “I have to go, Mum,” Katie says finally. I could be wrong, but I swear she sounds close to tears. “People are waiting for me. My friends want to hang out. I hoped you'd be pleased for me, but I guess I should've realized that you'd just use this as an opportunity to fuss and make me feel like shit.”

  “I just want to be sure that you're okay,” I tell her.

  “And I am. Or do you think I'm lying?”

  I stare at the blank rectangle on the screen. I can hear Katie breathing, but I'm not sure that's enough to calm my nerves. I want to tell her that I'll be on the next train to London, that I have to see her in the flesh, even though I know she'd probably accuse me of overreacting. It's strange, I thought these video calls would make me feel closer to her; if anything, however, they only seem to be exaggerating the miles between us.

  I decide to wait, to see how long Katie will allow this silence to grow until she feels the need to speak. It might have started small, as a lull between her voice and mine, but now the silence has ballooned tick-like to form an impenetrable barrier, and its vast size seems to be pushing us even further apart.

  Why doesn't she speak?

  The call is still active, we haven't said our goodbyes yet, and I can just about hear her stuttering breaths.

  She has to say something soon.

  I stare at the screen, listening carefully.

  She just -

  Suddenly there's a flash, an extremely brief image that shows me Katie's room for a fraction of a second. And in that flash, in that minutest moment of time, I see my daughter sitting at her desk while a dark figure stands behind her. The image is gone again in the blink of an eye, but it's already impressed upon my mind. Even now, with the screen having become black again, in my mind's eye I'm still able to remember the flash I witnessed, and seeing the carnage of the room. Just like her old apartment in Tim's building, her new room seems to have been turned into an absolute tip. And there was some kind of symbol daubed on the wall.

  “Katie,” I stammer, “what -”

  “I have to go,” she says calmly.

  “But -”

  “I'll call you soon, Mum. Have a relaxing evening, okay? I have to go and be with my friends now.”

  “Katie -”

  “I have to go and be with my friends!” she snaps. “Why can't you understand that?”

  With that, she cuts the call. I immediately try to reconnect, only to find that she's suddenly offline. I try several more times, jabbing at the track-pad harder and harder on each occasion, and then finally I lean back on the sofa.

  I can't do this.

  Not again.

  I can't just sit here while Katie gets into more trouble. Setting my wine glass aside, I hurry to the stairs. I have to pack a bag and go back to London.

  ***

  Less than two hours later, I'm on the night-train to the city. I stare out the window, watching the dark English countryside rushing past, waiting for the trees and fields to give way to small towns, and for the small towns to give way to industrial parks that will eventually build and build until I'm in London again.

  I'm overreacting. I'm sure of it. As Katie would describe it, I'm being a “panicky custard”, but I can't help myself. I have to see her, and to make sure she's okay. I'll go to the house where she's staying, clap eyes on her, and turn right around. I already tried calling the police, but once again they were absolutely useless. I'm still not given to conspiracy theories, but it certainly feels as if they've been instructed to ignore me. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, maybe they're just sick of panicking old women calling to report their daughters missing, but I can't just sit back and do nothing.

  I have to see Katie with my own two eyes. I have to know that she's okay.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Hotel

  “What do you mean, a hotel?” I ask, shocked as I stand at the reception desk. “This can't be a hotel! My daughter is staying with friends here! This is where she's living!”

  The receptionist stares back at me, and it's clear that she's not entirely sure what to say. A phone is ringing on the desk next to her, but she makes no move to answer.

  “This is the Kensington Havermere Hotel,” she stammers finally, forcing a smile even though there's utter confusion – perhaps even panic – in her eyes. “I'm sorry, but I think perhaps you've made some kind of mistake. We don't rent out apartments or anything like that. It's a hotel.”

  “My daughter's name is Catherine Wren,” I continue. “Sometimes she goes by the name Katie, or Kate. Can you please check to see if she's staying here?”

  “I'm really not supposed to just -”

  “Look her up!” I hiss, leaning across the counter. “I spent the night on a train coming here! It's now five in the morning, and my daughter gave me this address. Either you can check whether she's staying here, or you can sit there and wait while I call the police! I'm sure your other guests would love to come down and find several officers making inquiries here in the foyer! And believe me, I will lie if that's what it takes to get them here! I refuse to be ignored!”

  She hesitates, before turning to her computer and starting to type. She seems extremely nervous, but I don't suppose I can blame her. After all, I've rather swept in here like a storm, demanding information. Drumming my fingers against the top of the counter, I watch as she continues to type and click, and it's clear that she's being thorough in her search. Deep down, however, I'm already braced for bad news.

  “I'm really sorry,” she says finally, “but there's nobody by that name staying here.”

  “What
about her friends?”

  “What are their names?”

  “Scott something,” I tell her. “She mentioned someone named Scott over the phone, I'm sure of it.”

  The receptionist starts typing again. She's clearly very keen to get rid of me, and I watch as she clicks between various screens.

  “I'm very sorry,” she says after a moment, turning to me, “but we have no -”

  “I'll be back,” I reply, picking up my bag and hurrying to the door. It's patently obvious that Katie isn't here, and that she deliberately gave me a false address, but I can't understand why she'd do such a thing.

  By the time I get back out to the front of the hotel, the sun still hasn't risen. The night air is freezing, and the only other person nearby is a doorman who looks rather bored.

  “Excuse me,” I stammer, hurrying over to him, “but I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for a house somewhere in London. All I know is that it's opposite a building site. Or perhaps not a building site, but somewhere that's having work done. There's a red crane. Do you happen to know the place I'm describing?”

  He stares at me as if I'm a madwoman.

  “Never mind,” I mutter, stepping past him and making my way along the pavement. I don't even know where I'm going, but I feel certain that Katie must have given me a false address that's far, far from wherever she's actually staying.

  Reaching the street corner, I stop and lean back against the wall, trying to get my breath back. Even though it's so early in the morning, there are already plenty of people around, and several buses are roaring along the road. I feel as if the whole of London is shouting at me, and I know that the noise will only get louder in a few hours' time once everybody else is awake. I could scream, but I doubt anybody would even notice.

  “Get your morning paper here!” a man calls out.

  Turning, I see a scruffy-looking gentleman holding up a rolled newspaper. After a moment, he notices me staring at him.

  “Morning paper, love?” he asks. “Can't rely on the internet for all your news. For one nice shiny pound, you can get this good old-fashioned printed paper with proper standards. Come on, what do you say? Help a fella out? Where'd we be without proper journalism, eh?”

  ***

  Huge swathes of tarpaulin are flapping in the morning breeze, pinned up to cover gaps in the building's walls. The sun is finally rising in the distance, although its light is filtered through the tarpaulin's scratched surface, and long, fuzzy shadows are cast across the abandoned office.

  I'm trespassing, committing a crime, but right now I don't care. Setting my suitcase down, I make my way across the vast open space and look around, hoping against hope that I'll spot someone. After all, I've already tried a couple of addresses and other buildings, and I haven't been able to track Annabelle down. It's almost as if she's disappeared from the face of the planet. If she's not here, I'm honestly not sure where to try next.

  Just as I'm about to give up hope, I reach the next corner and look toward the tarpaulin sheets in the distance, and I spot a figure on the floor. My initial instinct is to turn and run, in case I've come across some raging mad rough-sleeper, but I know I have to be brave. I can hear slow, restful snores rising into the air, so at least this poor soul is fast asleep. Keeping close to the wall, I make my way around the edge of the space until I reach the far end, and now finally I can see the face of the sleeping figure. I feel a rush of relief as I spot her features.

  It's her.

  “Annabelle?” I say tentatively. “Annabelle, it's me.”

  I wait, but she doesn't respond.

  “Annabelle?”

  I step forward, worried about startling her.

  “Annabelle, please,” I continue, “I need you to take up. It's me, it's Winifred Wren and -”

  “Fuck!” she exclaims, suddenly sitting bolt upright and staring straight at me.

  I instinctively step back.

  “What the...” She pauses for a moment, before looking down at the front of her jacket and starting to brush some dust away. She seems genuinely startled, although after just a few more seconds she gets to her feet and mutters something under her breath. She's a little unsteady on her feet, but I don't think she's drunk. Instead, she appears to be rather confused, as if she hasn't been disturbed for quite some time.

  “You're not an easy person to track down,” I tell her. “Your old number isn't working anymore.”

  “I lost my phone,” she says cautiously.

  “The landlord at your apartment didn't seem too happy to even hear your name.”

  “I don't exactly have a steady job.”

  “And your -”

  “I get it!” she adds, interrupting me. “Things are a little down right now, but they'll pick up. I'm just working on a few things.”

  She pauses, and I can't help noticing that she's lost weight since the last time I saw her. She looks gaunt, and rather pale, and she walks with a noticeable limp as she turns and heads over to a pile of papers and books in the corner. If anything, she seems annoyed by my arrival.

  “I'd almost given up finding you,” I continue, “but then I remembered that you told me about this place. It's the office where you worked when you first came to London, isn't it? You said you sometimes came back here, so I thought it was worth checking. I must admit, this is the first time I've ever broken my way into an abandoned building.” I turn and look around at the empty, cavernous old space, before turning back to her. “So this used to be a newspaper office, did it?”

  She mumbles something, but I can't quite make out the words.

  “I need your help,” I tell her.

  She crouches down and opens one of the many folders on the floor.

  “I know this is going to sound almost impossible,” I continue, stepping closer, “but my daughter... Katie has disappeared again. I got her home, and then she came back to London, and now I can't find her. Something's wrong, and the police were as non-committal as usual.”

  “So?” she asks. “What -”

  Suddenly she starts coughing, and she sounds worse than ever. She turns away from me and leans against the wall, but it takes a moment before she manages to get her breath back.

  “What do you want from me?” she continues finally, gasping for air. “The last time we spoke, you didn't exactly approve of my methods. In fact, I believe you threatened to accuse me of stalking if I ever contacted you again. Funny, that, since you're the one suddenly breaking into my home.”

  “This is your home now?”

  “Hard times call for desperate measures. I'll get back on my feet.”

  “But it's so cold here,” I point out. “And damp.”

  “So?”

  “So you'll catch your death!”

  “You're not my mother, so back off.”

  “I just...”

  I pause for a moment, and it's very clear that Annabelle is in a bad way.

  “And in case you didn't hear,” she adds, taking some photographs from the folder and then getting to her feet, “our mutual friend Mr. Timothy Ashford-Clarke was executed at Kentonville Prison.”

  “I believe he was murdered by -”

  “He was executed,” she continues, limping toward me. “That's the only word for it. They didn't put a noose around his neck. They didn't stand him against a wall and shoot him. Instead, they put him in a high-security prison and then they made sure everyone heard rumors that he'd been abusing and killing young women. That's a pretty effective way to make sure someone ends up dead, and the best part is that they can blame whichever hot-headed fellow inmate drove the screwdriver into Tim's neck.”

  I flinch. “That's not -”

  “So don't tell me he wasn't executed by the people who turned him into a scapegoat,” she adds. “They didn't even have to bother with putting him on trial. Another innocent man is dead because of those assholes. Just like Harry Plume, just like everyone else who ever got in the way of the untouchable Knott's Court. If you're still gonna insi
st that my view of the world is so wrong, there's really no point in you being here. I can't help you if you refuse to open your goddamn eyes, Winnie.”

  I pause for a moment, and I can tell that she's serious.

  “Katie is missing again,” I say plaintively, holding back tears. “She gave me an address, but when I went there I found that it was actually a -”

  “I found her,” she replies, handing the first photograph to me.

  I open my mouth to ask what she means, before seeing that the picture shows an image of Katie walking up some steps toward a dark door.

  “When was this taken?” I ask.

  “Two nights ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Where do you think, Winnie? Come on, don't play dumb. You recognize that place.”

  “I'm sure I don't.”

  “I'm sure you do!”

  I stare at the picture, and slowly I realize that Katie appears to be heading up toward the door at the front of Knott's Court. She's glancing over her shoulder, as if she's worried about being seen, but she isn't looking directly at the camera.

  “I just happened to be watching the place when she showed up,” Annabelle continues, handing me another photo that shows Katie going through the open front door. “I've been keeping tabs on those assholes, but I've gotta admit, I didn't expect Katie to appear again. Although when she did, I figured you wouldn't be far behind. Forgive me for not offering you anything to eat or drink, but I'm kinda just scraping along right now.”

  “This isn't possible,” I whisper, staring at the photo. “Why would she do this?”

  “Because she was at Knott's Court before,” she replies, handing me another photo. This one shows Katie disappearing into the house, with the door starting to swing shut. “Because Tim never had her locked away in a basement. That was a complete set-up, he was an innocent man to the end. Katie was at Knott's Court last time, then she was sent home to you because they wanted the heat to die down, and now she's willingly gone back to them.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why would she have lied to me?”

  Annabelle hands me the rest of the photos, which are just shots of Knott's Court from various angles.