The detective constable assigned to me came and gave me the news. (He reminded me of PC Atkins in a funny kind of way. He had that same slow manner, that same tired kindness.) He told me that when the police had searched Martha’s house more thoroughly they’d found the newspaper article about Victoria Sands, the one that Mrs Ellis had defiled. It had been hidden, taped beneath the wardrobe. They found another article, too, crammed beneath the mattress. This time it was about the girl from Glasgow. The child who’d had no family to miss her. The articles were like bizarre boasts. A catalogue of crimes.
I watched Victoria’s brother talking about his sister’s murder on the news, thanking the police for finally solving the case, hoping now that his remaining family would find peace. I remembered the photo I’d seen of him when he was a boy. Large, lost eyes, wondering where his sister had gone. And I had that same wrenching connection, the knowledge that the two of us were tied by an understanding of how it was to have a sibling disappear.
Martha had been right to rejoice that her father had died. Who knows how many girls he would have killed? Or perhaps there had been others – girls with no one to notice; no one to report them missing.
We kept the funeral small: Rita and David and a few ladies from the church. I chose a white coffin for Gabriella’s delicate bones and we sang hymns and listened to Siouxsie and the Banshees. We tried to do things that everyone would have liked.
And we tucked her up close to my parents’ grave. It rained again. The bottom of my skirt got soaked from the long, wet grass, and the scents were strong in the air: the tang of the rain, the earthy soil and the lilacs I laid on the grave. I wore my DMs and denim jacket proudly this time. Not appropriate? So what? I could hear Gabriella laughing.
Martha was there for the burial. She stood with her posy of red roses, close to her parents’ defiled grave. No wonder she’d done that. I imagined her through the years, chiselling away at their names, trying to erase them entirely. Who could blame her after they’d taken her only friend away?
Maybe, eventually, I’d go and see her again. In the meantime, the social workers were keeping a close eye. Even Eliza visited, struggling on her stick, trying to appease her guilt for not having done more when she’d seen a young girl crying on a doorstep.
And then, when I’d thrown the first clod of earth into the grave, the villagers came, filing silently into the churchyard to say goodbye to the lost girl from so many years before.
After the funeral was over and the wake done, I spent my time alone, mourning my sister, walking through the village until I realised that I wasn’t avoiding memories as I had done previously; instead, I was seeking them. There was the gate we’d swung on; the wall we’d walked along; the drive marked with Gabriella’s handprint in cement.
One time when I was in the graveyard, putting more flowers on my parents’ and Gabriella’s graves, I wandered across to Edward Lily’s and placed a spray of lilies there too.
The church door opened and Nicholas emerged, motorbike helmet under his arm as usual. He noticed me watching, waved and came across. ‘Hello, Anna,’ he said, gently touching my arm. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m getting there. Thank you for asking.’
He nodded and together we stood side by side looking at Edward Lily’s grave. There were no flowers apart from mine, and a few weeds had found their way through the stones. I leaned down absent-mindedly to pull them out. Who in the village would do this after I’d gone? Rita perhaps. She’d promised to look after my parents’ grave. And Gabriella’s. Maybe she’d tend Edward Lily’s as well.
I thought of Lydia. Why hadn’t she been at her father’s funeral? Not dead, according to Dawn, since the aunt had mentioned her. Was she in a home as we’d discussed, or perhaps she was ill? She would surely have been there otherwise.
‘Do you remember Edward Lily’s funeral?’ I asked Nicholas.
He shook his head. ‘Before my time, I’m afraid.’
‘I was thinking about Lydia.’ I gave him a sidelong look to see his reaction, but he was only waiting, interested in what I was going to say. ‘You know about Edward Lily’s connection with my family, don’t you?’
He nodded, his cheeks turning pink.
‘Lydia was missing from his funeral. I was wondering where she was, what happened to her. I heard Edward put her into a home. She had a mental illness, I believe. It seems a cruel thing to do, to abandon your daughter like that. Do you think it’s true?’
Nicholas considered. ‘I can’t say, Anna, but it’s possible to find out. I’ll speak to Lawrence.’
‘Lawrence?’
‘The vicar who was here before me. He would have organised Edward Lily’s funeral. He’s retired now.’
‘Would you speak to him? I’d be so grateful.’
Nicholas reddened again. ‘No need. I’d be delighted. I’ll telephone him this afternoon and see what he has to say.’
I thought of something else. ‘Lydia has an aunt – Edward Lily’s sister – but I don’t know where she lives. Perhaps Lawrence might know? I could write to her.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Thank you.’
We both looked at the grave again and stayed in silence until Nicholas left.
Lawrence was away for a few days – a fishing trip, so his wife said. Impatient, I tried to find out information from other sources. Rita had said that our point of contact for the house clearance was the solicitor, but maybe she had the sister’s address as well. She didn’t, but suggested I asked at Martin and Martin. Client confidentiality, I was informed by the prim secretary when I rang. No surprise there. I asked her to pass a message on. Perhaps the solicitor involved would call me back.
While I was waiting to hear from either Nicholas or Martin and Martin, I tried investigating in a different way. David stepped forward and offered his help. We searched social media but found nothing. We looked for relatives of Edward Lily on ancestry sites, but there were none living, apart from his sister, a nephew and Lydia, and I had no information about Isabella. Her story was hidden in Spain.
I visited Dawn who recounted her memories of Lydia. She told me about her life as Edward Lily’s housekeeper; how Robert would weed and cut back the bushes and the trees; and how Lydia would spend hours wandering in the garden of Lemon Tree Cottage, or staring from the window at the fields beyond.
Picturing Lydia in the garden, I recalled how neglected it had been. Robert hadn’t done much of a job. I imagined a younger Dawn flirting with him, distracting him. It wasn’t hard. Dawn was only seven or eight years older than me.
A new idea came. I tried it out. ‘Did you clean the cottage when Edward was in Spain?’
She nodded. ‘He wanted the place to feel lived in, and besides, he sometimes came back.’
‘So you went to the house when it was empty, you and Robert together, to clean and do the garden?’
She nodded again and blushed. Mystery solved: the ashtrays, the food and the wine, the rumpled covers on the bed. I’d stumbled on a lovers’ den that day when I’d explored the cottage, looking for Gabriella.
Dawn took out her handkerchief and blew her nose, covering up her burning cheeks. Had Robert been in the bedroom waiting for her? I imagined their faces when they heard the noise of scrambling on the porch, and Dawn’s shock at coming out, in her orange gown, to see a child’s face. How often had I dreamed about that piece of fluttering cloth?
I allowed myself an inward dash of irritation towards this woman: the intruder that had wasted my time. And then I allowed myself to forgive her. It didn’t matter anymore.
Lawrence returned from his fishing trip. Nicholas came to see me, and handed me an address and a telephone number. ‘Edward Lily’s sister. Her name’s Elizabeth. She lives near Oxford. She says you can call or write and ask her what you like.’
I took the piece of paper with a nervous feeling. What exactly did I want to find out? The thought of speaking directly filled me with anxiety, so after a few attempts,
I wrote a letter and spent the next few days with Rita completing the final details of the house clearance. I contacted an estate agent and asked for a valuation. It was time to put the shop on the market. It was time to think about what I was going to do next.
The envelope was on the mat when I got home from the House of Flores. I looked at the unknown handwriting and my stomach flipped. I knew it would be from Elizabeth before I’d even opened it. Kicking off my shoes and shrugging off my jacket, I made my way to the kitchen where I sat at the table to read. The letter was long, three pages, the tone immediately warm. ‘I was sorry,’ Elizabeth wrote, ‘to hear about your sister. So sad, never to have met my niece.’
I blinked away tears and read on. Elizabeth had known nothing until her brother had visited shortly after Gabriella’s disappearance. He’d confessed his affair with my mother, the birth of their daughter, and begged Elizabeth to look after Lydia, saying he couldn’t cope. Elizabeth had a son with his own special needs and she’d cared for them both. I was glad to know that Edward hadn’t abandoned his daughter in a home, but I thought of my mother and her cousin Mary and I didn’t judge him for the decision that he’d made.
‘Lydia has a form of psychosis,’ Elizabeth wrote. ‘A personality disorder possibly inherited from her mother. Sometimes, when things aren’t quite right in her life, she feels vulnerable, but she’s learned to recognise those moments, and she manages them, going voluntarily into care. She felt that way when Edward died and she’s in the care home now, but I know it won’t be long before she’s back with me. My niece is strong and independent. She’s an exceptional person.’ I nodded as I read her words. I might have guessed that. Gabriella had been the same.
Elizabeth continued, telling me about Edward’s will, explaining how she was the executor and trustee. She said Edward had left the proceeds of the sale of Lemon Tree Cottage, its contents and everything else, to Lydia and Elizabeth’s son in a trust, which meant that after Elizabeth was gone, Lydia would always have enough money to pay for her care.
‘My husband was executor and trustee, too,’ she wrote. ‘But now he’s passed away, I need to appoint a new trustee. Someone who Lydia can rely on after I’m gone.’ I reread her words. Was there a question hidden between those lines? She hadn’t met me. Perhaps she could tell from my letter that I’d do my best to help.
Finally, Elizabeth asked me to visit her. ‘We have so much to catch up on,’ she wrote. And she gave me the address of the place where Lydia was temporarily living in case I wanted to meet her, too.
Sighing, I folded away the letter and considered how wonderful Elizabeth must be. The kind of person who made sacrifices, who took on other people’s children. Someone like my father. I sat for a long time, thinking, missing my family, focusing on who they’d been, bringing each one of them back to hold in my memory, if only for an instant.
Later, when the light had dropped and my grieving was exhausted, I crept upstairs to Gabriella’s room. The window was open. Outside clouds glided, passing across an imperfect moon; the wind sighed and muttered, catching its breath in the branches of the trees. Voices. Ghosts. I thought I could hear them, urging me to carry on.
‘I miss you,’ I whispered into the darkness as a breeze reached in and caressed my face.
I miss you. Did an echo travel back?
Turning on my side, I found the pillow wet with tears. I was weeping, one more time – for the way my childhood had ended; for the death of my parents.
And for the day my sister disappeared.
EPILOGUE
It was a lovely, cold November day. The sky was bright blue with wisps of cloud like sea surf.
I drove down the gravel drive and parked outside the building. In the sunshine, it seemed less severe than I’d imagined, stretching in a semi-circle, surrounded by green. There was an oak tree rising to one side and a fountain that reminded me of the photo, the one in the Plaza de España.
A woman strolled across the lawn, arms linked with an elderly man. I watched them, imagining he was Edward Lily. And I thought of you, Gabriella. And wished that you were with me.
David had wanted to come, but I’d refused. I’d hired a car and driven myself. This was still too personal to share with him. Perhaps if things went well . . . I let my imagination wander. I’d have more time soon. I was going to sell the House of Flores. A buyer had come forward. I was glad about that. I was giving up my life in Athens to concentrate on writing, and with the money from Mum, I might open a gift shop. David had told me it was about time he moved on too. He’d hinted about us spending time together. It was possible. It was all possible now. Rita had been glad to hear the news.
I climbed the steps, clutching my bag. The entrance hall was quiet. There was a reception area with armchairs and low tables with magazines and books. A cat strolled across the carpet. A woman dozed in a chair. She wore a flowery dress and a cardigan, her hair was pinned in a bun and when the cat jumped onto her lap, she woke, laughing, delighted. I smiled, thinking of Jasper.
A voice called from the desk. ‘Can I help you, madam?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for Lydia. I rang a few days ago. She’s a relative.’
The words sounded strange on my lips. I expected this person to think so too, to question me, ask for some kind of authentication, but she only nodded and held out a gold-tipped pen. ‘Sign here, please. I’ll take you through.’
I signed and gripped my bag as I followed her out into a corridor. ‘Does she know I’m coming?’
‘Of course. We always tell our residents in advance – give them a chance to refuse. Not everyone wants to be bothered.’
‘Did you tell her my name?’
She looked at me directly for the first time. ‘Yes, although I’m not sure how far she registered it.’
‘I don’t suppose she’s used to having many visitors.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the woman. ‘Her aunt came and her father, and so did his friend.’
My heart gave a lurch. ‘Friend?’
‘Esther.’ She looked at me curiously. ‘Esther Flores. I assumed she was a relative of yours.’
Our mother had visited Lydia. I shouldn’t be surprised. Rita had told me she and Edward had made their peace. How betrayed Mum must have felt when Edward came to find you, Gabriella. When he told you the truth. And yet, she forgave him. She came to see his other daughter – Lydia. Was it a penance for denying a child her true father? Or was it because it was the closest she could get to you?
‘When was she last here?’ I asked, avoiding any explanation.
‘Late summer. I remember it clearly, a lovely, sunny day. They sat outside, you’ll see where. Lydia’s there now.’
For a moment, I felt angry again. Why hadn’t Mum trusted me with any of this? And then my anger rose and fell and drifted away. That generation. They had a right to their secrets – although I vowed that from now on, I wouldn’t have any of my own.
In the garden, I looked around trying to identify Lydia amongst the scattering of people. A figure sat alone on a bench wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was loose, light-coloured and floating, like a cloud about her face. And as we moved closer, there was no mistaking. She had the same frailty I’d seen in the photos; her neck was slender like the stem of a flower; her face, though lined, was as pale as stone; her cheekbones pronounced. The beauty hadn’t gone. And she had light-grey eyes, shaped like almonds, serious and sad. Like yours.
Tears rose. I had no idea what to say. How could I express the emotion I was feeling, or talk about the damage of the past? How would I explain who I was, the connection the three of us had?
I was aware that the woman was talking, leaning down, touching Lydia’s arm, speaking too low for me to hear. And when Lydia looked up, I saw a hint of curiosity in the almond-shaped eyes. It came and went, so quickly you might not notice if you weren’t already acquainted.
But I was. I felt that I was, anyway.
There was silence, save for a blackbird t
rilling in one of the trees. Lydia tilted her head as though she was listening. And I knew what I would say. I’d tell Lydia about you. I’d tell her all the most wonderful things I remembered – about the love and the laughter and the special things we did. I’d tell her how one day you were there. Then you were gone.
I took Martha’s portrait from my bag. It was a beautiful picture, drawn with love. The blackbird stopped its song. The wind took a breath. Lydia stared at the picture and for a moment I thought she wouldn’t respond. But then she looked at me, and with your eyes, Gabriella, she smiled.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my agent, the brilliant Sophie Lambert, for believing in The Missing Girl from the start. She gave me the confidence to think that success was in my grasp and her creative input, guidance and advice has been invaluable.
Thank you also to the team at C & W, and especially to Jake Smith-Bosanquet for his skill in foreign rights, and to Emma Finn for all her support. Many thanks go to Carrie Plitt for ensuring the book has the perfect home in audio.
I am incredibly grateful to Sam Humphreys for her superb editing and insightful advice on how to make this novel stronger. I knew from our first meeting that I wanted to work with Sam. Huge thanks to Josie Humber, Laura Carr, Katie James and the rest of the team at Mantle who helped create this book, and thank you to Emma Draude and Frances Gough for their fantastic support with publicity. I’m immensely proud to be published by Pan Macmillan.
I am indebted to all my Curtis Brown Creative classmates for their friendly and honest feedback; to Rufus Purdy and especially to Anna Davis whose perceptive comments sent me down a better path. I am grateful also to the talented Erin Kelly, for her wonderful teaching on the course and all her excellent and good-humoured advice on being a writer since then.
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