‘I had another test at the station. Anyway, it’s too late now, it’s done.’
‘Well, I’d be kicking up an absolute stink. Your granddaughter’s just gone missing, for goodness’ sake.’
But the more Laurel sticks up for me, the more I realise that I was in the wrong. That my carelessness and thoughtlessness are the cause of all this. Nothing more, nothing less. I let Laurel vent for a moment longer before gently cutting her off. ‘So do you think you’d be able to come and pick me up? Drop me back home? Don’t worry if it’s too much of an imposition at this hour.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And I’ll be giving those police officers a piece of my mind, too. Are you hungry? Want me to bring you anything?’
‘No, just your company and a lift would be wonderful.’ I feel such relief at the thought of going home that I could cry. Guilt follows swiftly as I think about Beatrice. Where is she now? What’s she doing? Is she sleeping? Frightened? Alone?
I would trade places with her in a heartbeat if I could.
Day Two
I don’t know why I was so worried. The whole thing was far too easy. Not a single hiccup. The entire evening went perfectly to plan.
This is my time now. I’m finally getting what’s owed. And if people have to suffer… well… that’s not my problem.
Ten
CLAIRE
At the sound of the doorbell, I stagger from my bed and wrap my cotton dressing gown around me, fumbling to tie the belt. The shower thrums in the bathroom. Oliver must be in there. I barely slept last night; all thoughts consumed with Beatrice. And then when I finally managed to drift off in the early hours of the morning, there was Jill’s ridiculous phone call waking us up and letting us know about her latest idiocy – arrested for drink-driving. I can’t even let myself process that right now, not with this squirming feeling in the pit of my stomach.
As I head downstairs, I check the time on my phone – just before eight thirty. My inbox is rammed with messages from friends, but nothing from the police yet. No news about Beatrice. Perhaps this is them at the door. Perhaps they have her! I envisage opening the door and seeing my little Bea standing there before rushing forward and flinging her arms around me. I stuff my phone into my dressing-gown pocket and hurry to the front door.
It’s a woman in her mid-thirties with chestnut hair to her shoulders and soft brown eyes. She’s wearing smart black trousers and a patterned blouse, sunglasses pushed up onto her head.
‘Hi. Claire Nolan?’
I nod, wondering who she is. A client? No, it’s a Sunday. Police? Maybe. Journalist? Hope not. What do I say if she is? No comment, I suppose.
‘Hi, I’m DS Gayle Hobart. DI Khatri asked me to come over to see you this morning. I’m the family liaison officer assigned to your case – FLO for short.’
‘Uh, oh, hi. DS…’
‘Call me Gayle. I’m here to help and support, and to keep you informed about what’s happening in the search for Beatrice, and to answer any concerns you might have.’ She gives me a gentle smile while I process what she’s saying. I’m still not fully awake, but I feel like I’m operating on some other level. Detached, yet still taking it all in.
‘So is there any news then? Any sightings or progress?’ I peer over her shoulder to the road beyond. All is quiet – typical Sunday morning round here. An unfamiliar silver Polo glints in the sunlight at the bottom of the drive. I’m assuming it’s Gayle’s.
‘Would it be okay to come inside and chat?’ she asks.
‘Um, okay.’ I really hope she has some positive news and that she’s not here to bombard us with more guilt-inducing questions.
‘Thanks. I’d normally come with a colleague, but he’s been unwell this week, so you just have me today.’
I step back to allow her into the hallway, fully expecting Beatrice to come skipping down the stairs for breakfast any second. The fresh realisation that she’s not coming is a punch to the gullet. I try to catch my breath. ‘Come through.’
Gayle follows me into the gloomy kitchen. I flick open the venetian blinds to let in some light and try not to feel too bad about the stack of dirty dishes on the side and the crumbs littering the counter. I don’t even bother to excuse the mess.
‘I need a coffee; do you want one?’ I ask.
‘That would be good. I can make it for you, if you like?’
I give her a sharp glance. ‘Is that part of the job description?’
‘Yep. Washer-upper, tea-and-coffee maker. I can do it all.’ She tilts her head. ‘Honestly, take a seat. I make a great cup of coffee.’
I don’t think today could feel any stranger right now so I do as she suggests and take a seat at the pale wood table while she cleans out the cafetière and boils the kettle. ‘Is your husband here?’
‘He’ll be down in a minute. He’s just having a shower.’
She makes him a cup too and sits opposite me just as I hear Oliver’s tread on the stairs.
‘Was that someone at the door?’ he calls out.
I wait for him to appear, his hair damp, dark circles beneath his eyes, before making the introductions. He’s casually dressed in black cargo shorts and an olive-green T-shirt. I feel grotty – I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.
Oliver takes a seat and lifts the third mug. ‘This my coffee?’
I nod while Gayle introduces herself.
‘Has there been any news?’ Oliver asks, taking a cautious sip of his drink.
I have a terrible feeling this is a question we’re going to be asking a lot. I hope I’m wrong.
‘Before I get to that,’ Gayle replies, ‘let me just explain to both of you who I am and why I’m here.’ She goes on to tell us that she’ll be the person who keeps us updated. Likewise, we need to tell her anything that comes to light at our end. ‘Obviously, we’re here to support, but also to investigate and act as a gateway to the incident room.’
I nod as she talks, trying to take it all in, to not let my mind wander. It’s hard not to believe this isn’t all some strange dream, or nightmare.
Like yesterday’s detectives, Gayle asks all about Beatrice and her friends, and also about our family members as well as our own friends. She asks what we’ve been doing over the summer. Did we meet any new people? That kind of thing. Eventually, she gets around to answering our questions.
Oliver jumps right in, asking if there’s been any news. But I don’t get too excited. If there had been any big developments, surely she would have told us by now.
Gayle clears her throat. ‘So, as you know, we had the search dogs out yesterday evening and they followed a trail which led to the far side of the park right up to the treeline. After that, the trail ends.’
‘What does that mean?’ Oliver sets his mug down on the table.
‘It means the dogs lost the scent after that. We had a search helicopter scanning the area, but unfortunately there’ve been no sightings.’
My mind is racing. Someone led Beatrice over to the trees, and then what? They carried her the rest of the way? I scrape my chair back and rush from the room, throw open the door to the loo under the stairs, kneel and retch over the toilet bowl. Hardly anything comes up, but it’s a shock. Everything is a shock.
Oliver has followed me and I reassure him that I’m fine. Even though I’m quite clearly not fine. My head is swimming and my temples pound with a sharp pain that spreads behind my eyes. I stand on wobbling legs and rinse my mouth in the sink. Splash my face and try not to look at myself in the mirror.
Now I have to return to the kitchen and talk to this Gayle woman about my daughter. Hear things that are hard to hear. Ask difficult questions. My stomach churns, acid burns in my throat. I hope I’m not going to throw up again.
As I walk back into the kitchen, Gayle hands me a glass of water.
‘Drink that slowly.’
I do as she says, only taking the tiniest of sips.
‘When did you last eat?’ she asks. ‘Can you manage some t
oast?’
I realise that I haven’t had any food since yesterday lunchtime. I meant to eat last night, but I just wasn’t able to force anything down. Despite my empty stomach, I don’t feel at all hungry.
The family liaison officer makes herself at home in our kitchen, preparing Ollie some scrambled eggs on toast, while filling us in on the lack of progress they’ve made so far in locating Beatrice. But our daughter can’t have vanished. She has to be somewhere.
We fire questions at Gayle, asking about security cameras and search plans, will they be questioning the fairground staff in greater detail and will they be going door to door? While Gayle makes breakfast, I sip my water and nibble a dry cracker, my stomach settling enough that I feel like I might be able to manage the toast now it’s almost ready. It’s surprising how unintrusive Gayle is, despite taking over our kitchen. I watch her as she bustles around and it occurs to me that rather than being here to look after us, perhaps she’s here for the opposite reason – to keep an eye on us. To see if we might have something to do with Bea’s disappearance. The cracker lodges in my throat and I try to swallow, suddenly feeling queasy again.
After our interviews with the detectives yesterday, it’s obvious they haven’t ruled me and Ollie out as suspects. So maybe sending Gayle here is their way of snooping. I clench my fists and walk out of the kitchen for a moment to compose myself. In the hall, I take a few deep breaths and consider telling Gayle to leave. But I guess she’s only doing her job. She doesn’t know us. She doesn’t know that there’s no way we’d do anything to hurt our child.
Fine. She can snoop away. We have absolutely nothing to hide.
As I return to the kitchen, Oliver’s mobile rings.
‘It’s Mum.’ He gives me a look that conveys everything.
I stop myself from rolling my eyes, still angry with Jill for her drink-driving episode on top of everything else. It’s typical that, even with her granddaughter missing, Oliver’s mother is still managing to demand all our attention.
‘I’d better take it,’ he says, leaving the kitchen. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Everything okay?’ Gayle asks, nodding in Oliver’s direction. ‘His mum was the one with Beatrice when she went missing, right?’
The last thing I want is to talk about Jill’s episode at the police station last night. But I guess Gayle will hear about it soon enough so I give her a brief recap of the situation. It turns out Gayle already knew. Of course she did.
‘Jill isn’t a big drinker,’ I offer, wondering why I’m sticking up for her. ‘I don’t think she can have been thinking straight. Although I know there’s absolutely no excuse for drink-driving,’ I add.
Gayle doesn’t offer an opinion either way. She just sets a plate of toast and perfectly scrambled egg before me. ‘There, that should help settle your stomach.’
‘Oh. Okay, thanks.’ I take a tentative bite, listening to the faint murmur of Oliver’s voice from the next room, and the banging of our next-door neighbour’s hammer as he attempts whatever DIY project he’s on to next.
Gayle sips her coffee and looks out the window onto our lawn with its steep terrace at the back. ‘It’s a lovely spot here.’
‘Thanks. It would be even lovelier if our neighbour would stop drilling and banging at all hours.’ I wonder how on earth I can be sitting in my kitchen making polite conversation with this stranger while my daughter is missing. I think I must still be in shock or something.
‘It’s a bit much on a Sunday morning,’ she agrees.
‘Oh!’ My eyes suddenly fill with tears as I remember what Beatrice should be doing today. I push the plate of toast away and rest my face in my hands.
Gayle comes over. I feel her hovering next to me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s just… I need to call the dance studio…’
Gayle waits for me to continue, but I’m having trouble speaking. My throat is tight and I don’t feel like I’m here. I swallow and take my hands away from my face.
Oliver returns to the kitchen. ‘This looks amazing, Gayle. Aren’t you having any…?’ His voice trails away when he sees my face. ‘What’s happened?’ His forehead creases. ‘Did you get some news?’
‘No.’ I gulp. ‘Nothing like that. I just remembered that it’s Bea’s dance recital today. At the Regent Centre.’
I’d been really resistant to the idea of her doing the summer dance school in the first place. It meant lots of rehearsing, making costumes, picking up, dropping off and – worst of all – getting her to practise her steps. Beatrice is enthusiastic about everything, but pinning her down to do such mundane things as practising and homework is a different matter. Oliver always says that Bea likes to work to her own timetable. Anyway, she begged me to let her do it, so I reluctantly agreed to her enrolling in the course, and today was the end-of-summer show. But now…
Oliver’s face falls. ‘The show’s today?’
I nod, wishing I hadn’t been such a stick in the mud about it. I should have been more enthusiastic. I could have made the practice sessions fun. I shouldn’t have begrudged giving up my time.
‘I’ll call the organisers,’ Oliver says. ‘Tell them… what’s happened. Text me the number.’
‘Okay. Thanks,’ I reply in a small voice.
Gayle has stepped back from our conversation, made herself unobtrusive. She’s looking out the kitchen window again.
‘How’s your mum?’ I ask Ollie, remembering that he’s just been on the phone with her.
‘Fine. She’s home now. Still distraught about Beatrice, obviously. She wants to come over.’
I grind my teeth, trying to keep calm. The last thing I want is for my mother-in-law to come round and start apologising, looking for sympathy and forgiveness. I know that probably makes me a bitch, but I can’t help it. I just can’t do it. I don’t have the energy for my mother-in-law right now, but there’s another reason I’m so angry. A reason which has nothing to do with Jill, and everything to do with me. The fact of the matter is that I feel horribly guilty about wanting to go out with my friends rather than taking Bea to the fair. If I had put my daughter before myself… if I’d been a better mother…
Oliver interrupts my thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, I told Mum you didn’t feel up to talking to anyone today.’
I blow out a breath. ‘Thank you.’ At least I don’t have to have another argument with Ollie about his mother.
Meanwhile, Gayle has started tidying up the kitchen. Probably having a good old nose around while she’s at it. I’m too wound up to tell her to stop. That she doesn’t need to bother. That I don’t care how messy the kitchen is. That I would happily take everything out of every cupboard and smash it all over the floor.
The only thing that matters right now is getting my daughter back.
Eleven
JILL
As I walk into the kitchen, Laurel looks up from her seat at the table, where she’s sipping herbal tea and reading the free local paper, her scarlet hair tied into a complicated bun on top of her head, a powder-blue chiffon scarf at her throat and multicoloured bangles jangling.
‘Laurel, thanks so much for picking me up last night. And for staying over. You’re a gem. You really didn’t have to.’ True to her word, she was at the station within twenty minutes of my call, her battered red Peugeot 207 one of the most welcome sights I’ve ever seen.
She waves away my thanks. ‘Don’t be silly. I wanted to. Did you manage to get any shut-eye?’
‘A bit. Maybe three or four hours. More than enough for me.’ I make a beeline for the kettle, in need of a strong cup of tea. I’m already showered and dressed and ready to do whatever it takes to find Beatrice.
‘Have you spoken to Oliver yet?’ Laurel always manages to insert Oliver into our conversations. I think she’s still a bit in love with him, even though she’s accepted nothing will ever come of it. That part of her life is well and truly over. It’s sad because they seemed to have the perfect marriage – she’s a local artis
t and he runs an art supply store. They share the same taste in music, films, books, life. Whereas he and Claire are total opposites in almost every way. But don’t get me wrong, Oliver seems happy with Claire, their dynamic seems to work. And, of course, without Claire there would be no Beatrice.
I never really got to the bottom of what happened between Oliver and Laurel to end their marriage. Oliver said she was unfaithful and yet Laurel flatly denies it; she always has done. I think he was a little harsh on her. Laurel loved Oliver. There’s no way she would have jeopardised their marriage by being unfaithful.
I bring my tea over to the table. ‘I actually just got off the phone with Oliver. There’s a police officer with them at the house, some kind of liaison person he said. No news on Beatrice yet. I just… I can’t believe it. Everything that’s happened. It’s like a bad dream.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jill. Can I do anything else to help?’ The thing about Laurel is that if she offers to help, you know she genuinely means it.
‘Actually, yes you can. I’ve decided to arrange a local search party.’
She nods. ‘Great idea.’
‘I think time is of the essence. The more people we gather together, the more ground we can cover.’ I woke up with the idea buzzing in my brain. I’ve already WhatsApped people from the local history museum where I volunteer, plus friends from my Pilates group and everyone else in my contacts who’s local. All except for Claire and Oliver. He didn’t sound very happy with me just now and he said he and Claire had a rough night, so I’ll let them rest while we search. It’s the least I can do. I’ve told everyone else to spread the word. We’re meeting in just over an hour’s time – 10.30 a.m. next to the fairground.
Laurel and I have a light breakfast and spend the remaining time photocopying a picture of Beatrice with my contact number, before leaving the house, although I also messaged an image of her to everyone’s phones.
My Little Girl Page 6
