My Little Girl

by Shalini Boland

  Now I remember where I heard his name. It was on the local six o’clock news. ‘Oh no.’ A dark knot of terror tightens in my chest. ‘Surely not.’

  She nods, tears streaming down her face. I reach across the table to take her hand as she gulps and heaves. ‘I called the police earlier and told them about the rumour. They’re looking into it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I soothe, trying not to let panic overwhelm me. ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll investigate as soon as possible. So let’s not jump to any awful conclusions. It’s a rumour, that’s all, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Claire whispers, looking more frightened than I’ve ever seen her. Her eyes wide and her teeth grazing her upper lip, looking the image of Beatrice when she’s scared.

  Our eyes lock together in horror at the possibility of what all this might mean.

  Twenty-Four

  CLAIRE

  As the front door closes on my mother-in-law, my mind whirls with all the new information I’ve been bombarded with today. First this new Gavin Holloway suspect, and now the phone call between Jill and Laurel on the night Bea went missing! I don’t even know what to make of that piece of information. Jill’s probably right that it had nothing to do with Bea’s disappearance, but then again, maybe it did. Her concentration can’t have been fully on the girls, not if she was on the phone. Then I think about all the times I’ve been on the phone or talking to friends while I’ve been with Beatrice.

  In my heart of hearts, I know it’s not fair to blame Jill for what happened. It’s Oliver I’m mad at, for letting his mother take the girls in the first place when we’d already agreed she wasn’t up to it. Or maybe I’m just mad at everyone and everything. Not least of all myself for agreeing to go on that girls’ night out when I’d already arranged to take my daughter and her friend to the fair. But Oliver said he was happy to take them… I bunch my fists in frustration. I can’t keep playing this blame game with myself. The same guilt trip over and over again. It’s no use to anyone. I can’t change what’s already happened.

  I’m still standing in the hall, motionless, as an outrageous theory suddenly pops into my head. One that I dismiss straight away as far too extreme to entertain. Nevertheless, I can’t stop my brain making instant connections. What if Laurel called Jill at the fair as a distraction? What if she planned the whole thing? But what would her motive be? Revenge? Much as Laurel has never been my favourite person, for obvious reasons, I can’t believe she could be responsible for something so evil. Surely not.

  I shake off the thought and head back into the kitchen, the cloying scent of Stephen Lang’s lilies making me nauseous, especially when I remember that Jill said they were supposed to signify death. I reach down beneath the blooms for the stems and lift the whole bunch out of the jug, not caring that I’m dripping water over the table and across the kitchen floor as I head out the back door and march around the side of the house to where the bins are kept. I dump the lot into the almost full garden-waste bin, letting the lid fall with a satisfying clunk.

  Back inside, I call Gayle to see if there are any further developments about Holloway. I know it’s probably too soon for any news, but I won’t be able to concentrate on anything until I hear back. As predicted, there’s nothing concrete she can tell me about Holloway, but she said they’re also dealing with a few leads from the Child Rescue Alert. She promises to let me and Oliver know the minute they find anything important to the case.

  Gayle’s mention of my husband has my whole body crumpling. I sit at the kitchen table and let my head fall onto my arms. It’s already mid-afternoon, so why isn’t Oliver home yet? According to him, the shop paperwork wasn’t supposed to take very long, but he’s already been gone for hours. What if he’s ended up in the pub again? I don’t think I can handle things if he gets smashed every day. I’m barely clinging on as it is.

  I ease my body upright and check my mobile phone again, but there are no texts or voice messages from him. I grit my teeth and call his number, ending the call angrily as it goes to voicemail after two rings. I don’t trust myself to leave a message, not without screaming and swearing into the phone. I try the shop’s landline next, but it transfers to an answerphone message which says to go to the website.

  So what should I do? Sit around waiting here as the minutes drag on? No. I push myself up off the chair, grab my phone and bag and leave the house. I spend the ten-minute drive trying to calm down so that I don’t burst into the shop in a furious rage. Perhaps there’s a good explanation for why my husband isn’t answering my calls. For why he’s avoiding me. I’d thought that after yesterday’s drunken debacle, we’d patched things up. I obviously thought wrong.

  As the traffic crawls along towards town, I try to be objective. Am I overreacting? I honestly don’t think so. It really comes to something when my mother-in-law is being more supportive than my husband. That’s never happened before, ever. When Ollie and I met eight years ago, she was less than enthusiastic. I think Bob had to talk her around to the idea of Oliver being with me rather than Laurel.

  Between Ollie and me there had been this instant, zinging connection. One of those moments when you see someone and your stomach flips over with butterflies, your skin tingles and you can’t breathe properly. He said it was the same for him. We met at the Larmer Tree, an outdoor music festival in North Dorset. It wasn’t my sort of thing, but I’d been dragged along by a group of friends, one of whom had a boyfriend who knew Oliver. Our two groups mingled and Ollie came and sat next to me. We spent the next twenty-four hours talking non-stop about everything and when we finally kissed, it was like fireworks going off. And that was it. We never looked back. So for us to be in this dark place right now… it’s not us. It’s not who we are.

  There’s no parking outside Ollie’s shop, so I find a space in one of the backstreets and walk towards the main road. A distant noise makes me look up and I see a V formation of ducks flying overhead towards the river. Beatrice would have loved to see that. We often feed the ducks and swans on the quayside, or along the Mill Stream which runs around the back of the priory. It’s one of our favourite things to do.

  Ollie’s shop, Priory Art Supplies, is situated just off the main high street where the rents are a lot cheaper and the square-footage is more generous. He’s usually in there six days a week, but he also has a couple of part-timers who help out over busy weekends and cover for him when he’s on holiday. Otherwise, Jill pitches in and so do I if he gets really stuck. But today, the shop is dark, closed.

  I let myself in, disable the alarm and make my way through to the spacious office at the back of the property. It’s empty. Oliver’s desk is uncluttered and clear of paperwork. It feels like it’s been undisturbed for a while. I run my finger over the desk immediately in front of his chair to reveal a very light film of dust around my finger mark. I don’t think he’s been in here today. I don’t know what to think. If he’s not here and not answering his phone, then there’s not a lot I can do. I’m not driving around searching for my husband as well as my daughter.

  I try calling his mobile once more, but yet again it goes straight to voicemail. I guess I could go into the Red Lion, see if he’s drinking himself into a stupor. But I don’t want to argue with a drunk. I don’t want to go in there and see my suspicions confirmed. I edge around the desk to sit on Ollie’s office chair. I close my eyes and try to keep calm. To stop myself spiralling into a panic. I can’t allow myself to plummet into despair. But it feels as though my family is disintegrating. As though I’m losing everything. How much further can there be to fall?

  Twenty-Five

  CLAIRE

  I’m sitting in the back lounge watching the shadows change and lengthen, my empty stomach grinding with a potent cocktail of anger and anxiety. My heart is thumping louder than our next-door neighbour’s hammer as Oliver walks through the front door at 6 p.m. I’m so furious with him that my whole body is shaking and I can barely trust myself to speak.

  Where the hell has he been? Thi
s is the second day in a row he’s gone off by himself. That he’s lied to me. I want to see how far he takes the lie.

  The front door closes quietly. I hear Ollie’s footsteps as he crosses the hall and goes into the kitchen. My heart pumps faster as I wait for him to come into the lounge, but instead I hear him pad up the stairs. What the hell is he doing? I should follow him up there, confront him. But I can’t seem to move. His footsteps sound steady and controlled. They aren’t the lumbering gait of a drunk person. At least I don’t think so.

  After what seems like an age, he pads back down. The door to the lounge creaks open and he walks in. I look up, unable to plaster any kind of expression on my face. His skin is pallid, his green eyes muddy with an emotion I can’t place.

  ‘How did you get on with your paperwork?’ My voice sounds as though it belongs to someone else, someone from another time and place.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You got it all done?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you?’

  ‘So you were at the shop?’ I press for an answer. ‘You were working there all day?’

  He sits on the arm of the sofa without replying.

  ‘Ollie?’ I stare at him, but he doesn’t catch my eye.

  He shakes his head. ‘You obviously know I wasn’t there, so why are you asking?’

  My chest tightens with grief that we’ve come to this place where we can’t even talk to one another honestly. ‘What’s going on, Oll?’ This isn’t the yelling match I’ve been envisioning all afternoon. This is far worse.

  ‘There’s no urgent paperwork for the accountant,’ he admits, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. ‘There aren’t any tax forms. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So where were you? You look pretty sober, so I guess you weren’t in the Red Lion all day.’

  ‘I just needed to be alone. Away from everyone and everything. I couldn’t deal with it all – the police, the worry, the questions, the fear. So I just drove and drove, and then I walked. I’m really sorry, Claire. I think I’ve managed to clear my head a bit. I’m here for you now, okay?’

  ‘Well, good for you. I’m really pleased you were able to go and clear your head. How fucking nice for you.’ Oh, here it comes. Here’s the tempest I envisioned. It was simply biding its time. There’s no slowing it down now, the blood is roaring in my ears.

  ‘Claire, I’m sorry.’ Oliver holds up his hands as though I’ll be placated by this. As though his palms are enough to ward off my fury. As though our shared history will cancel out his callous, selfish abandonment of me.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip in a grimace. ‘You’ve basically pissed off for two days during the most stressful time in our lives, when I needed you the most, and all you can say is you’re “sorry”. I don’t even know what to say right now.’

  ‘I know, I know. Claire, you have to believe me—’

  ‘Believe you!’ I spit. ‘When all you’ve done is lie? When you’ve left me to deal with all this shit on my own?’ I get up and lurch out of the room, slamming the door behind me so hard that the house shakes and my arm judders with the impact. Do I storm out? March upstairs? I honestly don’t know what to do with myself. I want to know exactly where he’s been and what he’s been doing. I want a better explanation than the one he’s just given me.

  The lounge door opens. ‘Claire…’

  ‘What!?’ I back up against the hall bannister rail.

  ‘Please. Please forgive me. Just listen to me.’

  I gaze at this man. My husband. ‘I feel like I don’t even know who you are.’ My voice fades to a whisper. I try to get the words out. ‘The Ollie I know wouldn’t drink to escape his problems. He wouldn’t abandon his wife to go off for hours at a time to clear his head. He just wouldn’t. This isn’t you.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ He’s crying now, choking down the tears. A tiny part of me feels sympathy, but I can’t forgive him for putting his own needs above mine and Beatrice’s.

  ‘What about your daughter? How does you going off for a pity party help her?’

  His fists bunch by his sides and his whole body tenses. I’ve riled something in him now.

  I keep going. ‘You haven’t even asked what’s been going on here while you’ve been gone. You don’t know about the new suspects and new investigations, about your mum coming over. You probably don’t even want to know, do you? You’re just burying your head in the sand. Hiding from reality so you don’t have to deal with it. But that’s fine, because good old sensible Claire will sort it out. She’ll do it all. And then, when it’s all done and dusted and Bea’s back home, and the stress is out of the way, we can pick up where we left off. The fuck we can!’

  Oliver’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head. But he’s not disputing any of it. Is this what he really wants?

  ‘This isn’t you!’ I cry. Is he truly this much of a coward? I never ever thought he was. To me, he’s always been fun-loving and brave, someone who pushes the boundaries. ‘Oliver, tell me you’re not going to be like this from now on.’

  ‘I don’t want to be,’ he says quietly. ‘I promise you I don’t want to be like this.’ He looks down at the floor for a moment before looking up again, this time staring directly at me. ‘Will you at least tell me what’s been happening today?’ He gazes at me from under his lids, like he’s nervous of my reaction. As well he should be.

  I realise I’m tired of being angry and upset. The best thing right now is for us to be united in our search for Beatrice. If we’re at one another’s throats, we won’t be as effective as if we’re supporting each other. All the emotion rushes out of me like a deflating tyre. ‘I’m starving,’ I reply quietly.

  He exhales. ‘I’ll make you something. Come in the kitchen. Tell me what’s been going on while I cook.’

  There’s so much more I could say to him. So much more to be angry about. But I’m suddenly so weak with exhaustion I can barely stand.

  As Oliver heats up one of Freya’s homemade lasagnes in the oven, I sit at the table and tell him about my day, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. The resentment that I had to deal with all of it on my own.

  As soon as I tell Ollie about Holloway, he stops what he’s doing and starts googling the news story from last year. He’s white and shaking and I can’t tell if it’s from anger or fear.

  ‘Is this him?’ He holds out the phone and shows me the image of the man that’s been seared into my brain all day.

  ‘Yes.’

  Oliver’s pacing around the kitchen now, muttering and staring at his phone. ‘What did the police say? Did they pull him in for questioning? Do we know where he lives?’

  ‘Gayle said they’re dealing with it, but she didn’t elaborate.’

  ‘I’m calling her.’ Oliver starts tapping and swiping at his screen before putting the phone to his ear. ‘Hi, Gayle. Yep, it’s Oliver here. Fine thanks, well, you know. Anyway, I’m just calling about Gavin Holloway. Is there any news?’ I hear the faint, tinny sound of Gayle speaking, but I can’t make the words. ‘Okay, and do they believe him?’ … ‘They did?’ … ‘Do you have an address?’ … ‘I understand that, but—’ … ‘Yes, but this is my daughter we’re talking about.’ … ‘Fine. But will you keep me posted? Yeah, because, this seems to be the biggest breakthrough we’ve had so far.’ … ‘I know, but—’ … ‘Okay.’ … ‘Okay.’ … ‘Thanks, Gayle. I understand.’ … ‘Really?’ … ‘That’s disappointing.’ … ‘Okay, will do.’ Oliver finally ends the call and takes a seat at the table. The aroma of Freya’s lasagne wafts through the kitchen.

  ‘Well?’ I prompt.

  He blinks and shakes his head. ‘So they interviewed Holloway today, but he denied being at the fair that evening. Apparently he has an alibi, which they’re checking, and they’re also going through the CCTV footage again.’

  I take it all in, wondering if his alibi will hold up. ‘Did they search his house or flat or whatever?’

  ‘Yes, with his permissi
on. No sign of Bea or that he’s had someone there.’

  ‘Do you think he lives alone?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Oliver grinds out.

  I pull at my fingernails, flicking and scraping them. ‘I know the police do this for a living, but do you think they searched his place properly? Do you think they looked in the attic? I mean, what if he has a hidden room or basement? You hear about these things, don’t you? I know it sounds overly dramatic, but—’

  ‘No, I agree.’ Oliver brings his interlocked hands to his mouth, pressing them against his lips over and over again. ‘I wish I knew where he lived. I’d go over there right now and beat the living shit out of him.’

  ‘I’d help you.’

  ‘Do you think it was him?’ Oliver asks.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. If it was him, then there’s a chance we’ll get Bea home soon. Unless…’ Neither of us want to say what we’re both dreading. ‘If it isn’t him, then we’re no nearer to finding out what happened and where she is.’ We let a moment of silence hang over us. ‘What else did Gayle say?’

  Oliver leans back in his seat. ‘They’ve examined the fair’s CCTV cameras and they managed to spot Beatrice and Millie going into the fair with Jill, but there was no trace of Bea leaving. Problem is, the funfair works with wristbands, so they don’t need a perimeter fence. They only have a camera at the entrance, where the money’s taken. So Beatrice could have easily left the fair undetected via the playing field or through the woods at the rear of the site.’

  ‘Shit.’ I exhale. ‘So there’s no chance of seeing where she went?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, no. Unless they pick something up on the road cameras.’

  The oven beeps and Oliver takes the food out. He dishes it up, while I wash a few salad leaves. Oliver opens a bottle of red and pours us each a large glass. I’m about to refuse it, but maybe it will be a small relief, take the edge off my torment.