My Little Girl

by Shalini Boland

  I continued to babysit Bea on my own – my darling granddaughter gave me a reason to keep going after losing my husband. Beatrice was only three when Bob died so she was quite a handful, but I adored her energy and sweet disposition. Unfortunately, over the following couple of years, a few tiny mishaps meant that Claire became less trusting of me, and our relationship grew more tense. I mean, kids are always getting into scrapes, aren’t they?

  I tried my best to repair things between Claire and me, but every time I tried to prove that I was more than capable of babysitting my granddaughter, something small would happen that made me look like I couldn’t cope. And now this. This will prove to Claire that she was right all along. I wish Bob were here to sort out this mess. He’d have found Beatrice straight away. He would know exactly what to do for the best.

  I blink and sniff, trying to put these maudlin thoughts away. I’ve got enough to worry about without dredging up all that grief which can sometimes feel as raw today as it did four years ago.

  I can’t change what has happened this evening, but at least I can do something proactive. Instead of sitting here feeling sorry for myself, I can act. Make more of an effort to find my granddaughter. I won’t be the one who cries in the corner. I won’t be the poor helpless widow.

  I go to the loo, splash my face in the cloakroom sink until I feel clear-headed once again, and I leave the house. I’ll drive around the local streets in case my darling Beatrice is trying to make her way back to my house. She could be wandering, lost and scared. Perhaps my efforts will prove fruitless, but at least I’ll be doing something. Because there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep tonight. And I can’t bear the thought of sitting around in my empty house, not with all these horrible thoughts whizzing around my head.

  I ease myself into my car and head back towards the fairground, which is only a couple of minutes’ drive away. The roads are quiet, despite it being a Saturday night. Christchurch isn’t a big party town. There are a few nice little restaurants and bars, and one nightclub on the outskirts. Most of the younger people head into Bournemouth and Poole if they want a night out. Although my Oliver always preferred to stay local. He liked the relaxed atmosphere here rather than the frenetic energy of Bournemouth with its tourists and stag and hen dos.

  There’s no space to park on the main road by the fairground, so I cruise past, glancing to my left at the dark shapes of all the rides, still and silent now. I notice a police car parked on the grass outside the entrance gates. I’m glad to see they’ve posted someone there.

  At least it’s a warm August night. If Bea is out there somewhere, she won’t be shivering with cold.

  I try not to listen to the voice that’s telling me Beatrice wouldn’t be wandering around lost for this amount of time. If she were simply lost, she would have become visibly upset, and someone would have seen her and brought her to the police station by now. So if she’s not lost, then what?

  The fairground is already behind me and I’m coming up fast to the large roundabout that’s always quite scary to pull out onto. I should have turned around before I got to it, but it’s too late now. Hopefully it won’t be too busy at this time of night. It’s silly really, because I’ve lived here all my life, but I still get flustered about which lane I should be in. Other drivers get so short-tempered if I have to change lanes, as if I’m not allowed to make a mistake. I really do wish people would be kinder to one another.

  I indicate right and wait until the roundabout’s clear. They come whizzing around so quickly that you have to really put your foot down. Okay, it’s clear. I pull out before realising that someone’s already on my tail. They’re too close. I speed up as they blast their horn and cut around me, music blaring from their car. I tell myself to pay them no attention. They’re clearly driving too fast. They shoot off up the dual carriageway and I breathe a little easier. I’m going to double back, go past the fairground once more and then cruise up and down all the residential streets in the vicinity. Please just let me find her.

  Finally, I’m around that hellish roundabout and back into familiar territory, keeping my eyes peeled for any movement. I put my headlights onto full beam to give me a better chance of spotting her. I wish Bob were here. He’d find Bea. He’d know what to do. Tears prick the back of my eyes, but I can’t cry now. I have to reel in my emotions and stay focused. I must think positive. I’m going to find her. Any minute now, I’ll see that swishy red dress, that dark hair. I’ll stop the car and gather her into my arms, and everything will be okay.

  Another car comes up behind me, its headlights shining too brightly into my rear-view mirror, making me squint. I check the dash and see I’m only driving fifteen miles per hour. I probably need to speed up, but if I do that, I might miss Beatrice. I should pull over to let them go past. The lights are blinding. I flick on my indicator and pull up onto the kerb, waiting for the car to overtake. Instead, it pulls up behind me. This is unsettling, perhaps I should drive off. But what if they follow me?

  I can’t sit here with whoever that is behind me. I check the driver’s door and make sure it’s locked. I remove my seatbelt and lean across to check the passenger side. I didn’t check the back doors. I wish this car had central locking. I should definitely drive off. What if they’re carjackers? My heart is knocking at my ribcage and my hands are shaking. I need to drive away now.

  I suddenly realise that the light behind me is blue, not white. A blue light? I give a short little scream at the knock on my window. My hand flies to my chest as I see the man’s face at the glass. His uniform. It’s a police officer. The car behind me was a police car. Thank goodness for that. Suddenly I remember that I’ve had a drink – a gin and tonic. A large gin and tonic. Or was it two? I can’t remember. This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all…

  Seven

  CLAIRE

  This is a nightmare. An actual waking nightmare. Where’s my daughter? I mean WHERE is she? I pull into the drive behind Oliver’s navy VW Passat and get out of my silver Toyota Corolla just like a normal person. Like everything is still the same as it was. It seems like days since I was last home, not hours. I may look calm on the outside, but the reality of what’s happened is squeezing my insides so hard I can barely breathe.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a voicemail from Freya, asking if there’s any news about Bea yet, and letting me know that she cancelled the restaurant as my friends didn’t think it was right to go out and socialise while I’m going through such a stressful situation. She tells me they’ll rearrange once Beatrice is safely home. They all send their love and Freya says she wants to come over and help search. I’m grateful for her offer, but I have too much to deal with right now.

  The police detectives will be here at any moment to search the house for possible clues to Bea’s whereabouts. As far as I’m concerned, they’d be better off looking for Bea out there on the streets and questioning the fairground employees than wasting time in our house. But I suppose they have to follow procedure.

  The front door opens and Oliver stands in the doorway as I bang out a text to Freya.

  ‘What are you doing standing out here?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing. Just texting Freya.’

  ‘Do you want to come in before DI whatsername and the other guy get here?’

  ‘I think her name’s DI Khatri.’ I climb the front steps to the porch. My phone buzzes with a reply from Freya letting me know she’s here whenever we need her.

  Back inside the house, Oliver is quiet. His face drawn. I can’t tell if he’s angry at himself or his mum or me or the situation. Probably all of it. The house feels different as we stagger through to the back lounge, shell-shocked. Ribbons of evening sunlight stream in through the sliding doors. I pull at the curtains, blocking out the glare.

  So many questions and accusations bubble up from inside, hovering on my lips, but now is not the time to ask them. Not when I know they’ll lead to a full-blown row. The last thing we need is to be in the middle of an argument when
the police show up. Ollie and I don’t normally do arguments. We’re a team. We talk about stuff, we sometimes disagree, but we usually talk or tease our way out of any disagreements. But then again, our relationship hasn’t really been put to the test before now. Our lives together have been pretty good.

  We love one another’s company, respect each other’s space, we share the workload, share childcare. It’s a partnership. And it helps that we also fancy the pants off each other. Our marriage has been almost too good. Maybe this is life trying to balance things out…

  ‘Claire—’

  ‘Let’s leave our conversation until after the police have gone.’ My voice sounds strange in the silent room. Harsh and out of place.

  ‘Fine. What are you going to tell them?’ he asks, patches of red mottling his neck.

  ‘The truth. Same as before. That I was on my way out to meet friends. You were catching up on some work. And your mum took the girls to the fair. There’s no point bringing up our disagreement about your mum looking after Beatrice.’

  Oliver gives a curt nod. I suppose he’s relieved that we won’t be airing our dirty laundry in public. But this doesn’t mean that I won’t bring it up again later, after the detectives have gone. I know that blame won’t help, but it’s something I’ll need to get off my chest. A way to relieve the fury still simmering inside me.

  We both give a start and turn at the sound of a car revving up the steep drive followed by car doors slamming. I catch my husband’s eye and despite the tension between us, we manage to convey some kind of silent solidarity before he goes to the front door to let them in.

  I remain where I am, trying to breathe. To prepare for this invasion of our privacy. I remember the state of our bedroom; my clothes flung everywhere like a bazaar. I’m not naturally a messy person, but I was in a rush and didn’t have time to tidy up after myself. I shake off the thought. Who cares about the state of the house? It’s the least important thing at the moment. Anyway, there’s no time left to race upstairs and sort things out.

  The sound of voices filters in from the hallway. Oliver’s bass notes and DI Meena Khatri’s soft-but-firm tone layered over the top. My stomach lurches as they draw closer. The two detectives come into the living room before my husband and I nod at them both, not quite managing a smile.

  ‘Any news?’ I ask.

  A quick shake of the head from Khatri. ‘We’re still searching.’

  DS Garrett flashes me a sympathetic look, but I can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. Again, I have the uncomfortable feeling that they’re treating us like suspects rather than victims. Even though they’re being nice and polite, their gazes are flitting around the room, sizing up everything. Judging, assessing.

  ‘Did no one see anything at the fair?’ Oliver asks. ‘She’s wearing a bright-red dress. Someone must have seen something.’

  ‘We’re following all leads,’ she replies.

  ‘So you have some leads?’ I want them to talk me through exactly what they know.

  ‘Nothing concrete, but we’d like to search your home, if that’s okay with you. It may turn up a clue about where she is.’

  I take a steadying breath. ‘She didn’t run off, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘We like to explore every avenue. That way we can be certain we don’t miss anything.’

  ‘Okay.’ I realise they’re going to want to do this whatever I say, so the quicker they start, the quicker they can leave and carry on coordinating the search.

  The next two hours are spent with them going over every inch of the house. They even go up into the loft, although goodness knows what they expect to find up there. Oliver plies them with cups of tea and biscuits while I pace impatiently and bark out gruff replies to their questions.

  After they’ve combed the place thoroughly, Khatri and Garrett follow us back into the kitchen. We all hover around the table. I don’t ask them to take a seat as I’m anxious for them to be gone, to go out and search for our daughter. For Oliver and I to go out and do the same.

  Khatri takes a sip of her tea. ‘Whenever you’re cross with Beatrice, or you argue, does she have a place where she goes, a place of comfort, that type of thing?’

  I bristle at the question. ‘What? No. We don’t argue.’

  ‘You mean to tell me that you and your seven-year-old daughter never disagree?’ Khatri raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, of course we disagree, but it never really gets to the arguing stage. If she’s ever cross or upset, she usually just goes to her room.’

  ‘I see.’ Khatri looks thoughtful.

  ‘What about a friend’s house?’ Garrett asks.

  ‘We’ve already called them all,’ Oliver says.

  ‘And anyway, she never goes anywhere without us,’ I add.

  ‘She went to the fair with your mother-in-law,’ Khatri says quietly.

  I try to contain my temper. I don’t want the police getting caught up in our family disagreements. If we start getting into Jill’s unreliableness and my reluctance to let her look after Beatrice alone, then they might start drawing false conclusions about what happened tonight. I need them to stay focused on finding our daughter, not get bogged down by family drama.

  ‘Yes, I know she went to the fair with Jill,’ I reply, trying to keep my cool. ‘What I meant to say was, she wouldn’t be allowed to go out without adult supervision. So there’s no place she would go without our knowledge.’

  ‘You’re certain of that?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, yes!’

  I know how I sound – like an ungrateful, angry child. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I am. But this whole searching-our-house thing is a gigantic waste of their time. Of course, it’s not their fault; they don’t know me or Ollie. They don’t realise that we would never harm our child or hide her in the attic or whatever it is they think they might discover. To them, we’re probably just as likely to be suspects as the fairground workers. Possibly even more so.

  Khatri’s eyes soften a little. ‘I understand that these questions can be distressing, but we’re just trying to—’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I know you’re just doing your job.’ I bow my head, worried that I might start crying.

  Oliver puts a hand on my arm for comfort, but I don’t need kindness right now. I just need my daughter.

  Finally, thankfully, they leave, taking Beatrice’s iPad, along with her passwords and pin numbers. As Oliver sees them out and the front door clicks shut behind them, I exhale and sink into the sofa, pulling my legs up beneath me. I don’t plan on relaxing for long, but I just need a moment to gather my thoughts and settle myself after such an invasion of our privacy. To try to get this whole situation straight in my mind. To consider if there’s anything we might have missed.

  Oliver doesn’t return to the living room straight away, which is fine by me. Maybe he needs a moment, too. It’s already dark out, a fact that terrifies the life out of me. If our daughter is out there lost and alone at night then goodness knows how she’s feeling right now. But I would rather that than any number of alternatives.

  Beatrice has never been a timid child. She’s not afraid of spiders or thunderstorms. She loves to climb trees and leap off the top of slides instead of going down them in the normal way. She speaks her mind, wears bright colours and rarely gives in to peer pressure. To be honest, she can be quite a handful – a real bundle of energy. But I’m hoping that all these qualities will stand her in good stead when it comes to being brave about whatever she’s going through right now. I’m praying she’ll use her initiative and find her way back to us.

  I notice my hands are shaking uncontrollably. I’d thought I was handling this okay, but the hard knot of fear in my chest is beginning to unravel, spreading its tendrils throughout my body. If I let it, it will disintegrate me completely. I get to my feet. No good will come of sitting here thinking.

  ‘Ollie?’

  I wait a moment but there’s no reply.

  ‘Oll?
’

  ‘Coming. Be there in a minute.’

  I go out into the hall to see him. He’s sitting on the staircase, massaging his head with his fingers.

  ‘Ollie, are you okay?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Shall I leave you alone? I think I’m going to go for a drive. See if I can spot her.’

  My husband sniffs and looks up at me. ‘Good idea. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘One of us should stay, just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case she turns up here, I suppose.’

  ‘She won’t have walked all the way home from the fair. She doesn’t know the way.’

  I know he’s right. ‘But what if she does?’

  ‘I’m not staying here while she’s out there.’ He pulls himself up using the bannister, grunting like an old person. ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it? It’s my fault she’s not home. If I hadn’t left her with Mum. If I’d—’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, okay. Let’s just go and find her.’ I don’t disagree with him though. I can’t tell him it’s not his fault, because the fact of the matter is that I knew his mother wasn’t reliable enough to look after our child by herself. I wish with all my heart that I’d been wrong. It’s not that I don’t like Jill. She’s a kind woman who adores her family, but I’ve noticed that she’s become more and more absent-minded these past few years and I just don’t trust her to be on the ball. Maybe that makes me a control freak. Maybe that makes me mean. Or unfair. Or whatever. But I wasn’t about to risk our daughter’s well-being for the sake of politeness. The fact that Ollie ignored my concerns feels like a betrayal. Like he took her side over mine. But no one wants to hear I told you so. And I don’t want to say it.