I reply that she’s a regular seven-year-old child, outgoing, friendly, happy, no medication, no issues as far as we’re concerned. With each question we answer, Khatri’s eyes lock onto ours, hard and probing.
‘She didn’t run away, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘We’re just trying to build up a picture,’ the DI replies.
‘Beatrice is a happy child,’ Oliver adds. ‘We’re a close-knit family.’
Khatri gives a short nod, which makes me think that she’s taking everything we say with a pinch of salt. That our word isn’t good enough. I suppose I should be pleased that she’s taking things seriously, but it’s bad enough that our daughter’s missing without being made to feel like it could be our fault. Even though Khatri is perfectly polite, it feels as though we’re the ones who’ve done something wrong. As though we’re responsible for Beatrice’s disappearance. Like we’re suspects.
‘Does Beatrice have a mobile phone?’ Khatri asks.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘We thought she was too young.’ Although, right now, I wish we’d let her have one. Maybe that way we could have used it to call or track her.
A juddering whirr overhead distracts Oliver and me from Khatri’s questioning. ‘That’s a police helicopter,’ Khatri confirms. ‘It’s nothing to be alarmed about. It’ll be helpful in covering more ground more quickly. It’s good that your daughter’s wearing red – easier to spot from a distance.’
Police, helicopters, sniffer dogs… what is going on? How can this even be happening? An image of Beatrice in her red dress flashes into my mind like a photograph from a long time ago. I’m already leaping to the worst conclusions. Already imagining outcomes that I’d rather not. I have to stop this. Have to keep positive. She’ll be found soon – I’m hopeful that this sharp-eyed inspector will see to that – and then we’ll all make our way home. I’ll tuck Beatrice up in bed and read her a bedtime story. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.
Five
CLAIRE
The inspector leaves me and Oliver alone for the moment, telling us to stay put and that she’ll be back soon. After she’s gone, I find myself staring at my husband. I don’t want to have an argument with him. We need to be united in our search for Beatrice. To support one another.
But I can’t help asking, ‘Why didn’t you bring the girls to the fair? Why did your mum have them? I thought we agreed that she…’ I want to say that she isn’t responsible, that she’s too scatty, but this is his mother. Being critical of her won’t help. So I repeat myself instead. ‘I thought that you were going to bring them?’
Oliver massages his forehead with his fingers, then pushes his dark waves back. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I was feeling stressed with work, and I’ve got so much paperwork to catch up on.’
Oliver owns Priory Art Supplies, a local shop he set up over ten years ago, before we met. He also runs an online version which is just as successful due to a loyal customer base that he’s built up over the years, along with group discounts offered to art classes and schools.
‘Paperwork?’ I think about my own mountains of paperwork. I’m an independent financial advisor so I always have a tonne of forms to fill in.
‘Bills, tax forms, the usual,’ he replies. ‘I knew you were looking forward to your night out so I didn’t want to bother you with it. Mum offered to take the girls and I said yes. I think she suspects we don’t trust her to look after Bea. So she wanted to prove she can handle it.’
I clench my teeth to stop the various retorts flying to my lips. Oliver knows what I’m thinking. He’s already beating himself up about it. It won’t help if I add to his guilt. I look away and my gaze lands on a figure sitting at a picnic table wrapped in a blanket, sipping a disposable cup of tea – Jill.
Oliver follows my gaze. ‘Go easy on her, Claire. She can’t possibly feel any worse than she already does.’
I shake my head. ‘Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here.’
My husband sucks in a breath and follows me as I stride over to my mother-in-law trying to calm my pulsing veins and the white-hot simmering rage in my gut. I launch straight in.
‘What happened, Jill?’
‘Claire. I’m so sorry. I… I don’t exactly know. One minute she was there, and the next…’
She makes to stand, but Oliver puts a hand on her shoulder.
‘You’re in shock, Mum. Stay sitting down.’
Jill does as her son says and I try to squash the resentment that my husband seems more concerned with his mother’s well-being than with mine. I know it’s not a competition and that I’m being unreasonable. Jill didn’t lose Beatrice on purpose, but she’s always so mellow and laid-back, silently judging me for my parenting style. For being too uptight.
I remember last summer when Oliver, Bea, Jill and I were walking along Christchurch Quay. It was a busy spring afternoon and the quay was packed with families like us out for an afternoon stroll. Beatrice was skipping ahead, feeding the ducks, and it was hard to keep sight of her. She was looking for her favourite duck – they all look the same to me, but she swore this particular duck was her friend. I called out for her to slow down, to stay where I could see her, and I could feel Jill’s aura of disapproval, like I’m this stressed-out controlling mother who doesn’t let her child breathe. That I should let her skip ahead and use her imagination more, loosen the reins. Well, Jill certainly loosened the reins tonight.
It’s taking all my willpower not to scream at the woman. To tell her how incompetent she is. How she had no right to take my daughter to the fair. That she’s not responsible enough, and now look what’s happened! But I know it’s not her fault. She didn’t do it on purpose.
‘Are you okay, Jill?’ I ask instead.
She gives a slow nod and huddles over her tea, like a frightened rabbit.
I turn to Oliver. ‘We should be looking for Beatrice, not standing around here talking.’
‘I know, but the detective told us to stay put. Maybe we should tell her we want to help. Mum, will you be okay here for a while? Do you want me to call someone to sit with you or drive you home?’
‘No, you go, I’ll be fine. I’ll drink this and then I’ll join in the search with you. I just… I feel a little out of sorts. A bit shaky.’
‘It’s okay. You stay there, Jill,’ I add, placing a hand on her arm, trying to be nice.
‘Thanks, love.’ Jill pats my hand distractedly, her eyes glazed. ‘I’m sure they’ll find her any minute. She probably got distracted and wandered off. Got herself lost.’
Not so distracted that she left the fair by herself. Beatrice would never do that. I squash down the fears that have begun shooting up like vines, twisting and squeezing out any optimism I may have had.
Oliver and I walk away from Jill, back towards the entrance, keeping an eye out for either DI Khatri or DS Garrett so we can tell them we’re going to join in the search.
‘Claire.’
I turn at a woman’s voice. My heart plummets as fast as one of the fairground rides as I see Tanya, Paul and Millie Jensen coming up behind us. Oliver nods at them and I stutter out a hello. Millie’s face is tear-streaked and her parents look drawn and stressed. Tanya has concern in her eyes but Paul’s expression is hard, accusing.
‘Any news?’ Tanya asks.
‘Not yet,’ Oliver replies.
‘I’m sure they’ll find her soon.’ Tanya turns to Paul as though seeking confirmation, but his eyes are trained on Oliver.
‘I thought you were taking Millie to the fair,’ he snaps to my husband. ‘You picked her up. You never mentioned your mother was bringing them.’
Oliver stiffens. ‘It was a last-minute thing. I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘Yeah, well, when it comes to who’s looking after my kids, I always mind.’
Tanya mouths to me that she’s sorry and I give her a discreet nod.
‘Well, I apologise if I caused any upset.’ Oliver’s mouth tightens. My husband
rarely gets angry. His laid-back attitude balances my tendency to worry. It’s what attracted me to him in the first place. Well, that and his gorgeous looks. He’s tall, and handsome in a dishevelled way. And he doesn’t even know he’s good-looking which only serves to make him even more lovely. But right now his easy-going nature is being stretched by Paul’s accusation. To be fair, I can see Paul’s point, but there’s no way I’m going to let him make Oliver feel any worse than he already does. He has his daughter safe and sound. The man should show some compassion.
‘I hope Millie’s okay,’ I cut in. ‘And I really appreciate you being so concerned about our missing daughter while she’s out their all alone with God knows who. So I’m sure you’ll understand that right now we have to go and search for her.’
‘Of course,’ Tanya replies.
Paul grunts his acceptance. ‘Good luck. I’m sure she’ll turn up.’
‘There’s the DI.’ Oliver pulls me away from the Jensens and back towards the entrance where the inspector’s listening to a man who looks to be in his sixties with greying hair, a check shirt and chinos. The man is talking intensely, gesturing wildly.
As we draw closer, DI Meena Khatri cuts him off. ‘I understand, but we have a child who’s gone missing, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept that your fair may not be reopening this evening.’
‘Fine, but you do realise that children get separated from their parents all the time at fairs and parks and beaches and whatnot.’ He has a Dorset accent and his face is growing redder with every word. ‘Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the nipper shows up completely fine, meanwhile my fair’s lost a whole evening’s revenue and we’ll be obliged to refund all the pre-ordered tickets. It’s a bloody headache I can do without.’
I can’t believe this man is more concerned with money than with my daughter’s well-being. I glare at him before turning to Khatri. ‘Hello, I just wanted to check – have you searched all the fair’s caravans and Portakabins?’
‘We have,’ she confirms.
‘I hope you’re not accusing my staff of anything,’ the man growls at me.
‘These are Beatrice’s parents,’ Khatri tells the man.
He flushes and clears his throat. ‘Oh. Well. Sorry about what’s happened. I’m Monty Burridge, the manager here. Of course we’ll do everything we can to help you find her.’
‘Thank you,’ Oliver replies more politely than I could at this moment in time.
Khatri dismisses Burridge with a curt thank you, and he stalks off, answering a call on his mobile.
‘Claire and I want to help your officers in the search,’ Oliver says to Khatri. ‘We can’t just stand around doing nothing. This is our daughter. We need to find her.’
‘Of course,’ Khatri replies, her dark eyes connecting with first him and then me. ‘Before that, we’ll need ask you a few more questions. It would also be helpful if we could come to your house and do a thorough search.’
‘A search?’ Oliver repeats. I’m as taken aback as he is. Why would they need to search our house? Surely they don’t think we’ve got anything to do with this.
Khatri isn’t fazed by our reticence. ‘It’s standard procedure.’
I can’t help wondering if this really is standard procedure or whether Khatri believes we might be behind Bea’s disappearance. I feel my cheeks grow warm under her gaze. It’s as if I’m back at school in assembly where we’re all being scrutinised by the head teacher for some misdemeanour and you still feel guilty even though you’ve done nothing wrong.
Khatri continues. ‘We’ll also take a look around Beatrice’s bedroom. You said she doesn’t have a mobile phone, what about a laptop? Or a tablet?’
‘She’s got an iPad,’ I reply. ‘But she’s only allowed to use it occasionally.’
‘Okay. I’ll come with DS Garrett to your address. If you can meet us there in the next half hour, that would be great. It’s the St Catherine’s Hill address you gave me earlier, right?’
Oliver and I nod. I can’t quite believe they still haven’t located our daughter. That she’s been missing for over an hour. My head swims for a moment as I try to comprehend what’s happening. That there’s a massive police search going on to find our little girl. That they’re going to search our house and check her iPad. That at this moment in time I have absolutely no idea where our darling daughter is. It was only this morning that she was holding my hand, skipping back from the shops and singing silly songs.
Where are you, Bea? Where are you?
Six
JILL
I ease myself out of my Nissan Micra and close the door, its light-blue metallic paint glinting under the street light. I’m home at last, but it all looks so different. Despite its painted white brickwork, my little terraced cottage in the centre of town appears darker somehow. Less welcoming. Its windows like hooded eyes. For the first time ever, I don’t want to go inside. But what else am I going to do? Sleep in the car? Wander the streets?
I walk up to the blue front door. I don’t have a driveway; the house sits right on the pavement. It can be irritating some days when I can’t get a parking space outside my house, or even in my street. But tonight, there was a space large enough for two cars slap bang outside my front door. Not that I care about that right now.
The police were here earlier, doing a search of my house, in case Beatrice had made her way back here somehow. I told them it was highly unlikely as she doesn’t have a key. But they asked to do a search nonetheless, and I told them they were welcome to do it.
After their search of my house, I spent two hours at the police station going over my statement, answering the same questions I answered back at the fair. I know the police have to be thorough, but it all felt so repetitive, and going over everything was so stressful. So upsetting. I’m absolutely exhausted and I can’t stop thinking about Beatrice and where she is now. If she’s okay. If she’s scared. If she’s… I give myself a shake, take a breath and open my front door, turn on the hall light and walk into the narrow hallway. Its walls are adorned with framed artwork that I’ve gathered over the years by my former pupils, from when I was an art teacher at the local comprehensive, as well as works by local artists – Laurel’s watercolours of the Dorset landscape are among my favourites.
As I loop my bag over the dark wood bannister, I realise my hands are still shaking. I need a drink. I march into the kitchen-diner and switch on the light. I love this room – cosy and perfectly formed with wooden sash windows and striped curtains, white-painted units with oak worktops, a square dining table, a squashy floral sofa and a green-and-white check armchair.
I reach for the gin on the side table, disappointed to note there’s only a third of the bottle left. At least there’s a full bottle of tonic water and I manage to locate a shrivelled lemon in the bottom of the fruit bowl. I plonk a couple of ice cubes into a cut-glass tumbler, its gold rim worn and scratched. Sinking into the armchair, I knock back half the glass and wait for the alcohol to numb my panic. To slow my heartbeats.
A nagging voice keeps insisting that it was my fault for taking Laurel’s call. For not concentrating properly on the girls. I’m worried about the fact that I omitted to tell the police about the phone call. That I didn’t own up to being a little distracted. Should I have told them? But that would have meant admitting that I’d left out that detail in the first place. They might think I left it out on purpose. That I lied. I take another gulp of my G & T, the warm silence of the room hanging heavy. The alcohol isn’t erasing my utter distress, but at least it’s taking the edge off. I shouldn’t beat myself up about the call; it’s irrelevant. The hall of mirrors was busy, I lost sight of the girls. That’s the truth of the matter. That’s all anyone needs to know.
I drain the rest of my drink and pour another generous one. What if Laurel says something? What if she mentions to someone that she was talking to me while I was at the fair? She’ll realise that we were on the phone at the time Beatrice went missing. She’ll know
that I was distracted. No, it’s okay, I’ll just say that we were talking before I lost her. For goodness’ sake, people chat on the phone all the time. It’s not like I was doing anything wrong!
The events play over in my head. I try to remember how long it was between seeing Beatrice and then realising she was missing. But my brain is foggy. I can’t quite remember the exact sequence of events. I think it was a few minutes at most. That’s all. A few minutes between everything being wonderful and everything turning into the worst day of my life. My poor Beatrice. And Oliver. His face was… he was distraught, terrified. And I could tell Claire was furious with me, and with Oliver too. Even though she didn’t specifically say so. I know she didn’t mean to come across that way. It was simply her fear showing. Which is completely understandable.
I only wish I could have been more coherent. More comforting towards the two of them. Instead I did nothing but apologise over and over again, sitting there on that bench with my tea like a feeble old person, making no sense. No wonder Claire was frustrated. No wonder she didn’t trust me to look after Bea. I realise now that the reason I never mentioned the phone call to them was because it would confirm Claire’s low opinion of me, drive even more of a wedge between us. Not to mention that she’d wonder why I was talking to Oliver’s ex-wife of all people.
But none of that is important. All that matters is Beatrice. Finding my granddaughter. That girl is my absolute joy. I adore her. From the moment I first clapped eyes on her swaddled in her soft white blanket after they brought her home from the hospital, I felt such a rush of love. As if she were my own child. With that dark mop of hair, and her precious face. Just like Oliver when he was a baby.
In those early days, Claire was only too happy to let Bob and I babysit. To take Beatrice off her hands while she had meetings with her clients. Claire’s a financial advisor. She works from home and found it very difficult at first to separate her work and home life. Not surprising with a new baby. We revelled in our new roles as grandparents. We took her to the park, had messy craft sessions at home, showed her off to our friends. It was perfect. Until my wonderful Bob died suddenly from a massive heart attack and I felt as though the world had ended.
My Little Girl Page 3
