The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  A knock at the window made me jump. David was grinning at me, gesturing towards the back door. I stood up, trying to focus, but my legs were weak and I held on to the side as I stepped across and turned the key.

  ‘Everything all right?’ His smile turned to a frown. ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, forcing myself to reply. ‘A headache.’ I rubbed my forehead as if to prove it.

  ‘I’ve got paracetamol in the van.’

  ‘It’s fine. Thank you. I just need to go.’ I turned my back on him and crossed to the box, the portrait still in my hand. Kneeling, I put it back with trembling hands.

  ‘You want me to take that?’ He gestured to the box.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ I said quickly. ‘Can you take the other?’

  ‘Course.’ He crouched beside me and his arm brushed mine. I looked at him. Our faces were close, his eyes dark and interested. I felt the heat from his skin and I had a sudden urge to tell him what I’d found. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he said.

  The feeling passed. I nodded and moved away, but I sensed David still looking at me, his disappointment clear. He must have known I was concealing something. Replacing the lid with a clatter, I closed down my emotions. Lifting the box, I made my way out of the house. Without commenting, David followed me back to the van.

  As we drove, I rested my chin on my hand. All the while I’d been searching, not knowing what I’d find. I’d stalked the streets in the village, interviewed people, checked their alibis. I’d broken into Lemon Tree Cottage looking for Gabriella, convinced Edward Lily had spirited her away. But I’d given up. Even when I came back this time, I’d been reluctant to search again.

  How stupid I’d been to doubt myself, to believe the clues had long gone. I should have known there’d be something that the police had missed. That I had missed. And here it was, buried in a box in Edward Lily’s house. A portrait of Gabriella.

  I closed my eyes, trying to make sense of its meaning, but no explanation would come.

  18

  1982

  Mum was sitting beside the telephone, making calls. She spoke in a bright voice each time she explained that Gabriella was missing, her crisp words fracturing only at the end of the conversation.

  For a moment when I passed her, she looked across, her face bright, seeing Gabriella’s parka before she saw that it was me. Her face fell as I hung up the coat and I felt the misery of knowing that I’d raised her hopes. And then the guilt. I was the wrong daughter. It was only when she finished her call and yelled at me for going out, then immediately wrapped me in her arms, that I understood she cared.

  It was Friday, but no one mentioned going to school. No one mentioned anything. I sat in the kitchen alone eating Rice Krispies from Gabriella’s bowl. When I walked back through the hall Mum was still there. She gave me a sad smile and dialled another number.

  Dad disappeared. I watched him from the window, leaping into his van and driving away fast. He came back an hour later, shaking his head, holding his hand out to my mother who had stopped making phone calls and was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, hands clasped as if in prayer. ‘She’s not there, Esther,’ said Dad quietly. ‘He hasn’t seen her either.’

  Mum breathed out slowly. ‘He wouldn’t have done. He was here.’ I remembered the scent of tobacco, the unexplained visitor from yesterday.

  ‘I know that, but still she might have gone afterwards.’

  ‘After what? We don’t know what she did.’

  They suddenly seemed to remember me and stopped talking. Who were they talking about? Where had Dad been? I didn’t ask, because the only answer I cared about concerned the location of my sister.

  In the afternoon, PC Atkins came back. He stood in the hall, his radio crackling, talking to Mum and Dad. His boots clumped across the floor as they went through to the kitchen. The door closed with a gentle click and the sound of exclusion rattled inside my head.

  It was thirty minutes before Dad came to fetch me. I timed it on the pendulum clock, fixing my eyes on the hands and my ears on the beat so that I wouldn’t have to think of anything else.

  PC Atkins smiled reassuringly. ‘Hello again, Anna,’ he said. This time I sat on a chair with my hands jammed between my knees while he squatted in front of me, his body creaking with the effort. My parents stood behind him like a pair of bookends. My mother’s face was so white it reminded me of one of the figures I’d made out of leftover pastry and varnished with milk for the oven.

  ‘You don’t mind if I ask you a few more questions?’ he said, taking out his notebook and flicking through the pages. ‘I’ve been to Gabriella’s school now, talked to her friends and her teachers, and I just want to know what you think about that.’

  He started slowly, explaining what he’d found out. Gabriella had been seen in morning lessons and at break time. She’d eaten in the canteen and registered in the afternoon. She’d walked out of the gates with friends, but they’d separated and nobody could say where she’d gone. Pausing from time to time to check his notes, to shift his position, to look at me carefully with his sad eyes, he eventually cleared his throat. ‘What about outside school? Has anything unusual happened?’

  I moistened my lips. Martha’s image came into my mind – her story about the man and the letter. I hadn’t seen a man, but I had seen the letter. And I’d seen the way Gabriella had looked. ‘Anna?’ said the policeman encouragingly. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  I shrugged. ‘She had a letter.’

  He studied me carefully and scratched his chin. ‘Letter?’ I nodded. ‘Who was it from?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was reading it at the fête.’ Should I tell him what Martha had said?

  ‘Might it have been from a . . .’ PC Atkins paused and glanced at my parents. ‘Boy?’

  I thought about the boys at school. I didn’t think Gabriella liked any of them so I shook my head. There was only the one in Our Price, but she’d never spoken to him. Not properly.

  There was a moment’s quiet. ‘Tell me,’ said PC Atkins, grimacing with the effort, ‘did your sister ever talk about leaving home?’

  I waited five beats, counting slowly in my head. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Never.’

  There was silence as he looked at the ceiling and frowned a little. ‘Only, I found a suitcase under your sister’s bed.’ I gripped my hands more tightly between my knees.

  He cleared his throat again. ‘Did you know about that?’

  ‘No.’ My eyes filled with tears.

  He looked away again and spoke to the wall. ‘Was she unhappy about something? Do you have any idea why she might have packed it? Do you think she might have been thinking about meeting—’

  Dad interrupted. ‘No. If you’re implying Gabriella had a boyfriend that she was about to drop everything for and run away with, that’s ridiculous. Gabriella didn’t have a boyfriend, did she, Esther?’

  Mum shook her head.

  PC Atkins kept his eyes on me. ‘What do you think, Anna? Do you know if Gabriella had any special friends like that?’

  I stared back at him, my tears starting to fall, and now Dad stepped forward. ‘No, of course she doesn’t. And I’ve already told you, Gabriella didn’t have a boyfriend and she hasn’t run away. She’s not the type of girl to do that.’ He paused. ‘She probably packed the suitcase because she thought we were going to Wales. She didn’t realise we’d decided not to go. Besides, if she’d run away, she would have taken it with her, wouldn’t she?’

  The policeman didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, ‘Do you think that’s right, Anna? Do you think she packed the suitcase for your holidays?’

  I nodded slowly and whispered, ‘Yes.’

  He leaned forward to catch my answer and then got awkwardly to his feet. ‘Thank you, Anna. You’ve been very helpful. And I don’t want you to worry about anything.’ Turning to my parents, he said, ‘Do you mind if I take another look round? It’s just a formality. All the
rooms this time, the loft, and do you have a shed?’ They looked at each other and nodded.

  On Saturday, I woke early to the sound of voices. At first I thought the policeman was back, but when I came downstairs, I found Grandma Grace, Granddad Bertrand, Uncle Thomas and Donald. They’d been summoned in the night.

  They gave me weary smiles. Uncle Thomas patted the seat beside him, but I preferred to sit on the floor. I always sat on the floor with Gabriella. It would be odd if I didn’t do that now. Grandma Grace filled the silence with her comments. ‘Such a lovely baby,’ she said. ‘Everything just right. Such a sensible girl. She’ll be back.’ But her words were frayed and she soon stopped talking and leaned on her stick, lips moving in silent conversation with herself.

  The morning crept forward. Dad hadn’t shaved and his eyes were bleary as if he hadn’t slept. He kept running his hand through his hair until it stuck up in clumps. Rita came round, led Mum upstairs and they sat in Gabriella’s bedroom. Donald made endless cups of tea which no one drank while Uncle Thomas persuaded me to sit next to him. He stroked my arm as I leaned against him and kept murmuring the same thing: ‘Courage, Anna.’

  The adults exchanged words they thought I couldn’t hear. The suitcase had confused everyone. Despite the logic that Gabriella would have taken it with her, the police believed it showed a mind capable of flight. I stayed silent. I had no intention of spurring their theory on. I knew Gabriella hadn’t run away because she wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. Not to me. She was staying somewhere for a day or two, hiding out for a reason of her own. I accepted the idea as if she’d mentioned it to me; it was simply that I’d forgotten exactly what she’d said. I only had to think hard and I’d remember. I only had to wait and she’d be back.

  At ten o’clock, Dad broke. He glared at all of us, his hair and eyes wild, and announced that if the police weren’t going to do anything, he was going to search the village. He took Uncle Thomas and Donald and vowed to knock on everybody’s door. By late afternoon he’d returned and the whole village knew my sister had disappeared.

  Dad marched straight to the telephone and phoned the police. He was shouting, insisting that they searched for his daughter. Mum and Rita came down the stairs. Uncle Thomas took Dad outside. It was left to Donald to pat my shoulder and tell me everything would be all right.

  Later, I peered through the front window at two police officers in our road. I watched them going in and out of gates and driveways, staying a few minutes at each door.

  My policeman (as I saw him now) arrived with another who introduced himself as DC Sayers. They sat together in the kitchen while I stayed in my room. I’d watched enough police programmes to know that DC Sayers was a step up from PC Atkins. To force it from my mind, I tidied my bookcase, taking all the books out, laying them on the floor and putting them back in alphabetical order. Some I’d inherited from Gabriella: Malory Towers, The Famous Five. These I laid on my bed. I was going to read each of them again. Nothing else until she came home.

  As soon as the men left, I crept halfway down the stairs and listened to my parents talking once again. Scores of police officers were being organised to conduct a fingertip search. They were satisfied, apparently, that Gabriella wasn’t the kind of girl who would run away. The vicar, her teachers, everyone who knew her had created the same picture.

  I imagined the scene: a line of blue uniforms stooping low as they swept across the green, crouching when they found a ring or a bracelet, a set of keys, a glove. Except they wouldn’t discover anything, I told myself repeatedly, because there’d be nothing there to find.

  In Gabriella’s room I peered through the window. The neighbours had come out and were gathered in the street. Every now and then one of them looked across at our house. A man, who I recognised from two doors down, was talking, waving his hands around. His wife had had a baby only the week before and Mum had sent me round with a pink fluffy bunny and a card. Even Mrs Henderson was there with her stupid son Brian. I opened the window and let the words float through. ‘We have to do something,’ said the man with the baby. ‘If it was one of ours . . .’ He dropped his voice and I didn’t hear more. A woman holding a toddler hugged him closer. A man put a hand on her shoulder.

  Leaning forward, I let my breath mist the glass. My body felt hollow as if nothing was inside me, no organs, no blood pumping, only the bones of my skeleton and the shell of my skin.

  The group drifted home. I pictured them, and all the rest of the people in the village, locking windows, checking doors, sitting with their children, keeping them at home.

  I kept a vigil by the window, keeping track of who came and who went. From time to time a neighbour ran down the street, the soles of their shoes smacking on the pavement. Other neighbours knocked on doors and disappeared inside. It was as if they were planning something we were excluded from, some kind of terrible surprise.

  At midday, the doors opened. One by one, men and boys stepped out, turning as if under instruction, in one direction, and walking silently away.

  Later, a gold Ford Cortina clattered down the road and stopped on the kerb opposite. Two men swung open the doors, stretched their arms and looked around them, their gaze falling longest on our house. They opened the boot and hauled out a tripod. Setting it up on the pavement, they levelled a camera straight at our door.

  The doorbell rang. Dad answered, half shutting the door behind him, and when he came back he spoke to Mum who was waiting in the hall. ‘The neighbours are searching,’ he said. ‘The whole lot of them, man and boy. They’re on the green, helping the police.’ My empty stomach churned. I put my hand there to make it still. Dad was trying not to cry as he took Mum’s hand, and drew her close. And as they leaned against each other, the autumn sun, straggling through the arched window at the top of the door, made weak patterns on their skin.

  Dad went off again, this time taking Uncle Thomas. Donald stayed to look after the rest of us although I could tell he didn’t want to; he wanted to be out there, searching like the other men. He kept fidgeting, walking about the room. Eventually he disappeared and came back with loaves of bread, Edam cheese and pickle. He enlisted my help and we made stacks of sandwiches for everyone. He put me in charge of buttering the bread and piling on the pickle. Gabriella didn’t like pickle, I wanted to tell him as I slathered it on. She preferred salad cream.

  After dark, Dad and Uncle Thomas came home, shaking their heads. And then the family – Uncle Thomas and Donald, Grandma Grace and Granddad Bertrand – left, trailing out in silence with a promise to return the next day.

  Jasper appeared and jumped onto my lap. I buried my face in his fur and prayed. Please God. Let my sister come home. And as I listed the extra chores I’d do, the services I’d go to, the old people I’d help, the Christian Aid envelopes I’d deliver, I tried to ignore Gabriella’s voice in my head: What’s the point of praying when God doesn’t reply?

  19

  David and I were both silent on the journey back to the House of Flores. There were too many emotions twisting inside my head. I was afraid that if I spoke, I’d lose control.

  I thought I’d seen every picture that existed of my sister – the photos they’d used in the papers; the snapshots we’d had at home. Now I’d discovered an entirely new image inside a stranger’s house and I didn’t know how to react.

  From time to time, David gave me a curious glance and I wondered if he resented my detachment. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t have the strength to take his feelings into account.

  Still, I felt a tug of regret when David came into the House of Flores and I refused his offer to stay and help. He suggested meeting for a drink instead and I made an excuse for that too.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘It’s not obligatory.’ But he pulled out a pen and scribbled his number onto a scrap of paper before he left. ‘In case you change your mind.’

  I took the boxes into the back room. The clock chimed from its hidden place and
I checked my watch. Two o’clock. Rita and Mattie were due. I pulled out the portrait and slipped it into my bag. By the time they arrived I’d gathered myself and a pile of paperwork together and was pretending to be absorbed.

  They worked in the back room, sorting Edward Lily’s clothes, his shirts and pinstripe trousers, linen jackets, hats and shoes. After a while, I gave up on the accounts and fetched the portrait.

  The artist had captured Gabriella exactly, the way she looked to one side, the hint of a smile on her lips. The picture had been drawn by someone who knew my sister, or else had watched her, day after day. Dawn had said Lydia was strange. Withdrawn. A solitary girl with solitary pursuits. She’d been a reader. Had she been an artist too? Taking my address book, I flicked through until I found Dawn’s number and made the call.

  Dawn sounded out of breath. ‘I was in the garden, pulling out weeds,’ she said. ‘Needs must, now I’m on my own. Is everything all right? Did you find Lydia’s things?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ I stopped and walked across to the window. From the back room, I heard Rita and Mattie discussing how to deal with Edward Lily’s clothes.

  ‘Good,’ said Dawn. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do with them, because of course I couldn’t carry them, and the man with the van said—’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said, interrupting. ‘They’re at the shop now.’ I hesitated. My heart was beating too hard. I put my hand on my chest to try to slow it down. ‘There’s a drawing. I wondered where you found it.’

  ‘Drawing? Oh yes. It was in the living room, on the empty shelves. I thought it had been forgotten so I popped it in the box.’

  ‘Do . . . ?’ I stopped again, and tried to breathe normally. ‘Do you think Lydia might have drawn it?’

  There was a pause. ‘Well,’ said Dawn. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you ever see Lydia drawing?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s only . . . the portrait is very good.’