The Moment She Left

by Susan Lewis

  Although the initial shock and disbelief, the sheer horror of her disappearance had eased some time ago, almost anything could make it feel present and terrible again. The crazy, unacceptable truth of it would creep up on him, catching him unawares, and he’d feel the panic, the debilitating helplessness and dread building all over again.

  Thanks to counselling he could control it better now, but his imagination remained the very worst of his enemies. At any given moment it would conjure the sound of her screaming, shouting for him – Daddy! Daddy! – begging him to find her.

  The media attention had dried up now, but in the early months it had been intense – and even welcome, for there was always the chance it would help to find her. The questions had gone on and on, creating ever more speculation and gossip. There had even been a time when they’d suspected him, though of what exactly he’d never discovered.

  Matt had gone for counselling too, and they’d both clung to every word of advice they were offered, had tried every coping technique, breathing exercise, and support system that was in place for people like them. They’d prayed, meditated, run for miles, eaten recommended foods, written things down, spoken about them, and even drawn them.

  Blake had wished with all his heart that Jenny would join them, but she’d always been nervous of strangers, and had started withdrawing from the world even before Jessica’s disappearance. The way they’d left the north, what had happened to force their departure, had already been too much for her. Once she’d started to realise that they might not get their daughter back, it was as though the woman he loved, his muse, his passion his life partner, had disappeared too.

  Jessica wasn’t dead. He couldn’t, wouldn’t allow himself to think that, and no one had recommended that he should. If he did it would mean he’d have to give up searching for her, and he could never do that either. Nor could Matt, who looked, and felt, as though he’d lost a part of himself, which of course, as her twin, he had. What devastation this had wrought on his young life. He would never get over it.

  Watching his son now, gaunt, good-looking, helpless, aimless, a shadow of who he should have been at twenty-one, Blake laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. He felt the bones, the frailty. He was too thin. They both were.

  Matt stared straight ahead as he said, ‘I still keep hearing her, inside my head. It’s so real I think she’s there, or somewhere close by, I just have to work out where.’

  Knowing exactly what he meant, Blake said, ‘Maybe Andee Lawrence will be able to find something the police missed.’

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ Matt responded. ‘She’s Luke Farnham’s mum. You know, he was in the same halls as me during our first year at uni.’

  ‘I remember him. Have you seen him lately?’

  Matt simply shrugged.

  It was unlikely that he had, since Matt had dropped out of uni after Jessica’s disappearance and though he had friends around the area, most of them had flown the nest by now, or were managing to hold down jobs.

  One of these days Blake would have to get on Matt’s case about finding a job too, or going back to his studies, but he could tell that the thought of going forward without Jessica was one his son still couldn’t tolerate. It was as though he too had stopped on that fateful day. He was too locked into their closeness, their bond as twins, to be able to carry on with his life the way he’d planned. It would feel like the worst kind of betrayal when she couldn’t do the same.

  ‘He needs a girlfriend,’ Jessica laughed, poking Matt in the ribs. ‘That’s what he needs. Someone gorgeous and sexy and who’s ready to . . .’

  ‘Yes, OK, we get the picture,’ Blake interrupted, with a wink at his son.

  ‘He shouldn’t still be a virgin at his age. He’s seventeen, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Who says he’s a virgin?’ Blake countered.

  ‘And since when did I stop being in the room?’ Matt protested.

  Jessica’s eyes were round. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve done it and never fessed up,’ she cried. ‘We made a pact, as soon as one of us did it . . .’

  ‘I’m not saying I have,’ Matt jumped in quickly. ‘It’s Dad. He’s off in fantasy land again.’

  ‘Well you were upstairs for a very long time with Amie Rice the other night,’ Blake reminded him. ‘And we all know she’s just waiting for you to make the first move.’

  Jessica laughed at Matt’s blush and Blake crushed them both in a hug.

  He could feel that hug in his arms now, bruising and absent, as he watched Matt walk back into the house. ‘Are we going for a run later?’ he called after him.

  Without turning round Matt said, ‘Sure, if you want to.’

  ‘We should give Mum a call first.’

  Helping himself to a drink from the fridge, Matt said, ‘You mean to speak to Nan? Mum hardly ever comes to the phone.’

  ‘She’ll speak to you.’

  ‘If she won’t speak to you, I don’t want to speak to her.’

  Blake didn’t pursue it. He understood Matt’s frustration with his mother; it was something else they shared, though it was rare for Blake to express it in front of Matt.

  It was its own kind of torture to think of what this was doing to Jenny, especially when she’d always been so fragile, so unsure of herself – except when she was with Blake and the children. He was her strength, her everything, she’d always claim, and she was his angel. Their family had meant everything to her, but now with Jessica missing, and the scars of what had happened in the north still raw, she could no longer cope. She’d gone to her parents unable to watch her husband and son’s pain and know she could do nothing about it.

  ‘I know I’ve asked you this before,’ Matt said, coming back to the door, ‘but do you think what happened with that scumbag Tyler Bennett . . . Do you reckon it could have something to do with . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Blake interrupted gently. ‘It doesn’t make any sense to think it. He’s in Manchester and Jess was in London when she disappeared – and we know the police have spoken to everyone up there. They don’t know any more than we do.’

  As Matt turned away Blake’s mobile started to ring.

  Seeing it was his boss he answered cheerfully. Graeme and his family had been a tremendous support to him and his family over the past two years, to a point that Blake really didn’t know how he’d have got through it without them.

  For a while they discussed the nineteenth-century gilt sofa that Blake had recently restored after Graeme had acquired it at auction in Italy. It had now been bought and the new owner was hoping it could be delivered to her home in Dorset the next day.

  ‘With Dave being off on holiday this week,’ Graeme said, referring to their regular driver, ‘I was about to ask if you’d mind driving it down there, but I’ve just remembered, Andee’s coming to see you?’

  ‘At four,’ Blake confirmed. ‘I can easily get there and back before she arrives.’

  ‘OK, if you’re sure. I’d come with you to help carry it if one of my sisters was free to mind the shop, but apparently neither of them is tomorrow, and as of right now nor are my nieces. If that changes, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I expect Matt’s free. I’ll get him to give me a hand. Are you sure you don’t mind me meeting Andee at the shop? I can . . .’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. You must do whatever works for you. What time shall I expect you in the morning?’

  ‘Around eight?’

  ‘Perfect. And you haven’t forgotten you’re invited for drinks at my sister’s on Friday? She called earlier wanting to be sure you can make it.’

  ‘Of course I can. I’m sorry I haven’t got back to her yet. Thank you.’

  After ringing off, Blake finished tidying the fuchsia and went inside to read through the notes he’d already made for his meeting with Andee. He was trying desperately not to invest too much faith in her, he didn’t want to pressure her that way – nor did he want to face the wrenching disappointment when she
ended up agreeing with the police that it was a mystery that might never be solved.

  Chapter Three

  Rowena Cayne, middle name Zelda thanks to her father’s passion for the Fitzgeralds, was affectionately known to her close friends and family as Rowzee. When she went about town she was more often greeted as Mrs C, and always fondly, since she’d been one of the most popular teachers at Kesterly High School for the past forty years. English and drama had been her subjects until she’d retired at the end of last term, so there weren’t many children from the last few generations who hadn’t studied or performed various comedies, tragedies, romances and even the occasional bloodcurdling horror on her stage, or in her lively classroom. And every single one of them – according to Rowzee’s sister Pamela – had adored her. (Pamela rarely uttered this with pride or affection, in fact it was usually something closer to resentment, but that was Pamela for you and Rowzee knew better than to take offence.)

  Pamela, being two years younger than Rowzee and quite unlike her in most ways, was generally annoyed with the world, including her daughters, now aged thirty-one and twenty-nine, for seeming to love their aunt even more than their own mother. While Rowzee and the girls vehemently insisted that wasn’t true, Rowzee’s late husband, Victor, had always insisted it was, though never in front of Pamela. He hadn’t been a cruel man, though he’d confessed quietly to Rowzee on more than one occasion that her younger sister could easily drive him to violence.

  Sadly Pamela had managed to achieve this with her own husband, for on the day he’d ended up leaving her for good he’d tried throttling her, and if Pamela and Rowzee’s much younger brother Graeme hadn’t heard the commotion and rushed to the rescue there was a fair chance Pamela’s husband would have been behind bars now, and Pamela herself would no longer have been with them.

  Happily for Rowzee, Pamela had survived. Understanding her sister in a way most didn’t, Rowzee knew that behind the fierce façade and constant complaints there was a truly sensitive soul struggling to best her demons. Graeme also loved Pamela, and believed in her goodness, although he wasn’t always as tolerant of her as Rowzee was, for he was firmly convinced that a piece of his mind did the younger of his two sisters – no matter that she was almost old enough to be his mother – some good from time to time.

  Victor had been firmly of that opinion too. He’d tell Pamela, quite bluntly, that if she didn’t have anything pleasant to say she should just shut up. This meant there had been many occasions when Pamela had flounced off in one of her famous huffs, only to return a day or two later, carrying on as though nothing untoward had happened at all.

  What would Victor think, Rowzee often wondered, if he knew that not long after he died – two years ago of a sudden heart attack, and Rowzee still missed him terribly – Pamela had decided to move into the Coach House that had been Rowzee and Victor’s home for over thirty years? Actually, Rowzee knew what he’d think, but since it was a little too savoury for her to dwell on, she generally sailed on past it, reminding herself that at least living under the same roof prevented her and Pamela from feeling lonely.

  ‘You’d never be that! Everyone always wants to come here,’ her niece, Katie, had protested when Rowzee had explained why she was allowing Katie’s bossy mother to take up residence in the treasured retreat. Although it wasn’t really much of a retreat, since it was only a few miles from town on the edge of the Burlingford Estate, and part of a staggered little hamlet of other smaller cottages. However, it was where Victor had written all fifteen of his successful children’s adventure books, and he’d always insisted on peace and quiet while he was working.

  The place had changed a good deal over the years, and was now, thanks to Victor’s interest in interior design, much lighter and brighter than when young Charles, the most recent owner of the Burlingford Estate, had offered to let them buy it. Its last transformation had been completed only months before Victor died, when they’d opened the place up to create a much more modern and hospitable interior while careful to keep all the original features. So now the rambling old stone property, with its smart thatched roof and quaint front porch, boasted a big open-plan kitchen-cum-dining-cum-sitting room that occupied most of the back of the house, with a black glossy Aga, limed oak beams, and lovely fancy French doors opening on to a large covered terrace. The masterful inglenook fireplace was as grand as ever, though a little sprucer now, and Victor’s study, at the front of the house, remained snug and sheltered from the sun during the morning, which was when he’d done most of his work. Upstairs Rowzee had a simply splendid en suite bedroom complete with dressing room, cosy reading corner and window seat where she could sit and watch the sun go down over the estuary. Across the landing Pamela had turned the largest guest room into her own private space, and had, with Rowzee’s permission, knocked through to the spacious bathroom next door. The other rooms, for when they had visitors, were at the end of a further galleried landing that overlooked the hallway below on one side, and the back garden on the other.

  It was in this garden that Rowzee was standing now, her floaty dark curls, threaded with silvery strands, lifting gently in the breeze as she waited on the phone. She might be sixty-five and retired, but inside she felt closer to thirty-five, and although her honeyed complexion was softly lined these days, and her twinkling green eyes didn’t have quite as lively a sparkle as they used to, she hardly looked her age either. There was an air of gentle inquisitiveness about her that merged perfectly with an inherent impishness – as her brother often remarked, ‘she’s a bundle of goodness all tied up in mischief,’ which was undoubtedly what had so appealed to her many students throughout the years.

  According to Pamela Rowzee and Victor were both hopelessly gullible and naïve, prey to anyone wishing to take advantage of them, and Rowzee thought this was probably true. However, they’d bobbed along very happily in their own sweet way for plenty of years without coming to grief – or not much, but Rowzee didn’t like to dwell on the things that had gone wrong.

  Still waiting for someone to come back on the line, she gazed across her sprawl of lawns and flower beds, looking so lusciously colourful thanks to all the recent rain, to where the adjoining estate’s chief gardener, Bill Simmonds, was careering about on his quad bike clearly having the time of his life. This was a machine Rowzee wouldn’t mind having a go on herself one of these days, it looked such fun.

  Something to add to her bucket list.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ she told the voice that burst in to check she hadn’t rung off.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you, but I’m afraid we haven’t had anything back yet.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Rowzee couldn’t be sure whether she was disappointed or pleased. ‘Well, not to worry,’ she said, brightening. ‘I can always ring again. Thanks for your help,’ and after wishing the girl a good day, she waved to Bill Simmonds who’d just spotted her before padding, barefoot, back into the house.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ Pamela puffed, bustling in from the hall with half a dozen bags of heavy shopping. ‘I thought you might have come out to help me.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you pull up,’ Rowzee replied, going to take some of the load and setting it down on the kitchen’s centre island.

  ‘Who were you on the phone to?’

  Rowzee started with surprise. ‘How did you know I was on the phone?’

  ‘Because I heard you ringing off. What, do you think I have some special powers or something?’

  Rowzee’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m never too sure with you,’ she confessed, and felt the joy of making Pamela smile.

  Pamela was the taller of the two, with lots of fluffy curls, much like Rowzee’s, and the same heart-shaped face, only larger. In fact, almost everything about Pamela was larger, from her slightly protruding green eyes, to her extravagant mouth, to the voluptuous figure that she often tried stuffing into clothes a size too small for her. As a result she was generally too hot, especially at this time of year, and managed to
look bothered, or stressed, or thoroughly annoyed even if she wasn’t, although she usually was.

  Rowzee only half listened as Pamela chuntered on about some woman at the supermarket who hadn’t known how to wait in line, and so had had to be told, by Pamela of course, where she was going wrong. Apparently the woman had proceeded to call Pamela a bossy old cow who ought to mind her own effing business.

  Having witnessed many such scenes while shopping with Pamela, Rowzee said, ‘Are you going out again? If you are . . .’

  ‘Of course I’m going out again. One of us has to find a job. We’re not all lucky enough to have inherited from our husbands, or to be able to boast a healthy pension from the state. I’ve got things to do like . . . Like . . .’ She was clearly struggling to remember what the demands on her time were, but Rowzee kindly refrained from mentioning Alzheimer’s, the way Pamela usually did with her when she couldn’t immediately call something to mind. ‘Don’t expect me back until eight at the earliest,’ Pamela declared.

  Rowzee gently prompted. ‘Wanting supper?’

  ‘Probably, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘I’ll do salad.’

  ‘Again? Well, I suppose it might help me to lose weight, just don’t overdo the dressing. Have you made a list of who you want to invite to the party on Friday?’

  You mean who you want to invite, Rowzee didn’t say. ‘I have,’ she confirmed.

  ‘And have you rung them yet? They won’t come if they don’t know it’s happening.’