by A J McDine
‘Of course she’s not.’ I lifted his chin with my finger so his eyes met mine. ‘The police are going to find her for us. And until they do, Fergus Barton’s bloody mother should keep her opinions to herself, the interfering cow.’
His eyes widened. ‘You said a swear and the c-word.’
‘And it was very naughty of me. But sometimes, in extreme circumstances, grown-ups are allowed to say the odd swear.’
‘Daddy’s been naughty, too.’
My ears pricked up. ‘Why, what’s he done?’
‘He’s been swearing at that nice police lady, the one that likes making tea.’
‘Sam? When was Daddy swearing at her?’
‘Just now. He said,’ Nate screwed up his eyes as he tried to remember. ‘He said there was no way he was doing an effing press conference. What’s a press conference?’
‘It’s where the police ask the newspapers and television to help us find Immy.’
He frowned. ‘Then why doesn’t Daddy want to do one?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, standing and straightening my T-shirt. ‘But I’m going to find out.’
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Stuart’s raised voice. I stopped to listen, feeling as though I was seven again, eavesdropping on my parents’ arguments.
‘… I am not taking part in a media fucking circus. The press are leeches. They’ll suck our family dry.’
Sam’s voice, calm, measured. ‘I understand your concerns, but DI Jones is keen to raise awareness of Immy’s disappearance. At least a press conference remains within our control and we get to decide what information we do and don’t release.’
I marched into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’d like to hold a press conference tomorrow morning,’ Sam said. ‘The DI thinks it could be beneficial. That’s if Immy’s not found in the meantime, of course.’
I turned to Stuart. ‘But you clearly don’t want to. Surely the more people looking for Immy the better?’
‘What if it backfires? What if the papers turn on us? I can see the headlines now: “Toddler disappears while parents hold boozy barbecue.” They’ll crucify us.’
‘Is that all you’re worried about?’
‘What if they find out Immy’s not ours?’
‘We wouldn’t divulge information like that,’ Sam said.
‘That’s my point. You wouldn’t need to tell them. They’ll dig up the dirt themselves.’
‘But our families and friends already know Immy’s not ours. Who gives a toss what the rest of the world thinks?’
‘Can’t you see?’ Stuart thumped a fist on the countertop. ‘They don’t give a fuck about Immy, they’ll want a scoop. You know what they’re like, poking their noses into other people’s business so they can get their hands on an exclusive.’
I adopted a guileless expression. ‘Anyone would think you had a secret to hide.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he blustered. ‘Of course I don’t.’
Sam and I both watched, expressionless, as a dark flush crept up his neck.
And in that moment, I had my proof, if I’d needed it, that my husband was lying to me. I only hoped it was about his affair, and not our daughter.
Chapter Fourteen
TUESDAY 15 JUNE
A buzz of voices drifted in from the corridor outside the police conference room. DI Jones took a sip of water and straightened his tie. Stuart sat up in his chair and I picked up the sheet of paper in front of me and scanned it quickly. On my right, Sam Bennett muttered something under her breath. It sounded like, ‘Showtime.’
I kept my expression neutral as reporters, photographers and cameramen shuffled in. There were eleven of them altogether. I had no idea if this was a good turnout or not. They set up tripods and adjusted cameras and opened notebooks and all the time their eyes never left us. My skin crawled under the heat of their gaze.
I’d taken time choosing my outfit. Navy tailored trousers, small heels and a crisp white shirt. A silver locket necklace and a single silver bangle. No earrings. Women with missing children didn’t have time to fiddle with earrings. Stuart wore chinos and a blue short-sleeved chambray shirt. I’d made sure he’d shaved and washed his hair. He was twisting his wedding band round and round his ring finger. I nudged his elbow, shook my head, and he stopped.
He was here under duress. I’d heaped on the pressure after Sam left our house the previous afternoon, practically bullying him into agreeing to take part.
‘I’m doing it, even if you won’t. So, it’s going to look pretty bloody strange if you’re not there,’ I told him. And before long he’d agreed, as I knew he would, because he was spineless.
It was a relief when DI Jones started speaking, and the reporters’ attention turned to him. He began by thanking everyone for coming. ‘As you are aware, we’re appealing for the public’s help in finding three-year-old Imogen Cooper, known as Immy, who went missing from her home in King Street, Fordwich, on Sunday afternoon…’
I stared at my hands as DI Jones described Immy and the clothes she’d been wearing. He detailed the efforts of the search teams, who had scoured the river between Fordwich and Plucks Gutter some eight miles downstream. He talked about the helicopter and the volunteers from Kent Search and Rescue. The calls from the public and the trawl through CCTV footage. He finished by saying, ‘Our priority is to find Immy safe and well.’ He turned to me and smiled. ‘And now I will hand over to Immy’s mother, Mrs Cleo Cooper, who is going to read a statement.’
I gazed resolutely ahead, trying to ignore the cameras and the expectant faces of the press pack. Underneath the table, my knees trembled and my stomach was in knots. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Stuart’s hand came from nowhere and clasped mine. I felt his warmth flow through me, and I cleared my throat and spoke.
‘On Sunday afternoon our lives were shattered when our beautiful daughter Immy disappeared from the garden of our home. The last couple of days have been every parent’s worst nightmare as we’ve waited for news that hasn’t come. We ask anyone who may have seen Immy or who has information about her, no matter how small they think it is, to contact the police immediately. Every hour that passes without her is torture.’ My voice disintegrated, and I bowed my head as I fought to compose myself. Cameras clicked and flashes burned my eyelids. A single tear trickled down my cheek. Stuart squeezed my hand as if to say, Come on, Cleo, you’ve got this. I glanced at him, unsurprised to see his eyes glistening with tears, too. I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my emotions in check, because I couldn’t afford to lose it now. I had to be strong. Raising my head, I stared straight into the nearest camera. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘please help us find Immy. Help us find our little girl.’
The police press officer stepped forwards. ‘DI Jones will now take questions.’
‘Do you think Immy fell in the river or is there a possibility someone took her?’ asked a male reporter, shooting me an apologetic look. He was holding his iPhone in his outstretched arm to record the DI’s answer.
‘We’re following various lines of inquiry, one of which is that Immy somehow found her way from the garden to the River Stour,’ DI Jones said. Stuart squeezed my hand again, and I knew he was thinking the same as me - the police clearly weren’t about to reveal the fact that the gate to the river had been unlocked. ‘But we’re keeping an open mind and exploring every avenue,’ the detective continued. ‘Yes?’ he said, pointing to a woman in a plum-coloured shift dress.
‘Pamela George from ITV Meridian,’ the woman said with a professional smile. ‘Are you saying you think someone abducted her?’
‘I’m saying we’re following various lines of inquiry with our priority being to find Immy safe and well so we can reunite her with her family as soon as possible. One more question.’
A man I hadn’t noticed before raised a hand from the back of the press pack. He had a hooded face and the gravelly voice of a committed smoker. ‘She’s been missing for almost
forty-eight hours. Is it reasonable to assume she’s already dead?’
I closed my eyes and sensed Stuart stiffen beside me. Once again there was a frenzy of clicking as the photographers sought to capture the perfect shot of a grieving couple.
DI Jones’ voice trembled with suppressed anger as he said, ‘It is not reasonable to assume that, no. We have every hope that Immy is alive and well and we’re using all the resources at our disposal to find her.’ He looked pointedly at the press officer, who clapped her hands in a businesslike fashion, thanked the reporters for coming and began ushering them out of the conference room. The man with a hooded face paused at the door and looked back at us. His eyes were narrowed and his head was tilted to one side, as if he was sizing us up.
I wasn’t naïve. It wasn’t unheard of for parents to hold an emotional press conference only for the police to discover they’d been behind their own child’s disappearance all along. Take the Shannon Matthews case. After the nine-year-old schoolgirl was reported missing from her West Yorkshire home in 2008, the police launched a huge operation to find her. Officers discovered Shannon safe and well almost a month later. Her own mother and the uncle of her mother’s boyfriend had kidnapped her so they could claim the reward money for her safe return. The story gripped the nation for weeks.
As I watched the reporter eyeballing us, I knew he was wondering the same thing. Were those crocodile tears we’d shed? Was the grief all an act? Were we, Immy’s parents, behind her disappearance?
Chapter Fifteen
CORFU
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
We’d barely pulled up outside the villa when Melanie appeared, her arms outstretched. ‘We’re so happy you’re here. How was the flight? No delays? You’ve timed it perfectly. We were about to have a drink.’ She hugged each of us, then held out a hand to Niamh. ‘And you must be Niamh. Welcome, Niamh, to our little slice of paradise.’
‘Thank you,’ Niamh said, gaping at the sprawling stone villa. She smiled at Stuart. ‘You’re right, it’s beautiful.’
We followed Melanie inside. Bill, who was slicing limes in the kitchen, bounded up, gave Stuart a man-hug, high-fived Nate and kissed me on both cheeks. Judging by the fumes on his breath, the G&Ts he was mixing weren’t his first drink of the day.
‘Bill, this is Niamh, our new au pair,’ I said, noticing Niamh standing awkwardly in the doorway.
Bill summoned her towards him with a wave of his hand. ‘Come on, don’t be shy,’ he boomed. ‘Stu, Cleo and Nate are like family to us, and if you’re going to be part of their family, you’ll be part of ours, too.’
Niamh sidled over and he took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Welcome to the clan, you Celtic beauty,’ he said. Her cheeks flared red.
‘For God’s sake, Bill. Leave the poor girl alone,’ Melanie scolded, batting him away. She gave Niamh an apologetic smile. ‘Don’t mind my husband. He’s an acquired taste,’ she added, rolling her eyes at him. Bill smirked. ‘But he’s harmless enough.’ She swept through the kitchen. ‘Cleo and Stuart, I’ve put you in the guest suite. I hope that’s OK? Nate, you’ve got the dreamy little bedroom overlooking the pool. And Niamh, you’re in the bedroom next door to Nate’s. I hope that’s all right?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I said, accepting the glass Bill offered me and taking a swig. It tasted divine. As the alcohol slid down my throat, I began to relax. It had been a manic year. I deserved a holiday.
‘Niamh, it’s best if you unpack Nate’s things so you know where everything is,’ I said.
‘Of course, Mrs Cooper,’ she said, bobbing her head. She held out a hand to Nate. ‘Want to come and help?’
‘Can I have a swim?’ Nate asked.
‘Of course you can, darling,’ I said, taking another sip of gin. ‘Niamh can find your trunks and armbands when she’s unpacking, and then you can go in the pool.’
‘I’ll bring the bags,’ Stuart said, hefting Niamh’s rucksack onto his back and picking up Nate’s suitcase.
‘You remember where the rooms are?’ Melanie asked him.
‘I’m sure I’ll find them. And mate,’ he said to Bill. ‘Make sure my beer’s primed and ready for when I get back.’
We watched the three of them disappear along the marble-tiled hallway towards the back of the villa. Niamh’s eyes were on stalks as she took in the Grecian sculptures on stone plinths and the vibrant abstract artwork on the walls.
‘She’s not exactly Astrid, is she?’ Bill remarked.
I laughed. ‘Stuart made me promise not to hire another alpha female. He said having one in the house was quite enough.’
‘She seems very sweet,’ Melanie said. ‘But she’s barely more than a child herself. Or am I getting old?’ She glared at her husband. ‘And before you say anything, it was a rhetorical question.’
‘She’s eighteen. She left school this summer. I was worried about having someone so young,’ I said, pushing my empty glass towards Bill. ‘I thought she might be homesick, but she’s settling in well. She’s very amenable, and Nate adores her.’
‘I sense a but,’ Bill said, unscrewing the lid of the Bombay Sapphire.
‘She seems to have developed a bit of a crush on Stuart.’
Bill bellowed with laughter. ‘Fuck a duck. That red-haired siren has the hots for old Stu? Bloody hell, I’ve heard it all now. He’s old enough to be her dad.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ve read it wrong. But she hangs onto his every word. And you know what he’s like.’
‘Too nice to say anything,’ Melanie said.
‘Exactly.’ I took my refilled glass from Bill and swirled the ice around in it. ‘I hope it doesn’t become an issue because I don’t want to go through the whole bloody rigmarole of finding someone new.’
‘Perhaps you should have a word with her?’ Melanie said.
‘What if I’ve read it wrong? Imagine how embarrassing that would be.’ I took another sip of my drink, then waved the glass at them both. ‘You watch her with him. See what you think.’
The rest of the day passed in an alcohol-blurred haze. I lay on a sunbed and dozed as Nate splashed about in the pool with Niamh. When Stuart peeled off his T-shirt and shorts to join them, Melanie put down her book and watched as Niamh cavorted in the water in her barely there cobalt-blue bikini. Bill was right. With her thick red hair and curves in all the right places, she was a siren, even if she wasn’t yet aware of it. One day she’d break hearts. I glanced over at Melanie and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘See what I mean?’ but she was too busy gazing at Niamh and Stuart to notice. Even so, I knew what she was thinking. An enormous pair of sunglasses may have hidden her eyes, but her mouth was turned down at the corners, making her disapproval all too apparent.
I hauled myself to my feet, plucked a T-shirt from Niamh’s sunbed and walked over to the side of the pool, wincing as the searing stone burnt my bare feet.
‘Your shoulders are turning pink. You should put this on,’ I said, waving the T-shirt at her.
‘Thanks, Mrs…. sorry, Cleo.’ Niamh took the T-shirt and stretched her arms above her head, giving us all an eyeful of nubile flesh as she pulled the T-shirt on. Stuart was too busy diving under Nate and making him giggle to notice, but on the other side of the pool Melanie’s lips thinned and Bill watched with a lascivious smile.
I sat back on my sunbed and wondered if bringing Niamh hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
As the week marched on, our days fell into a routine. Breakfast on the terrace overlooking Albania and the Straits of Corfu, as busy as any highway with cruise ships, fishing boats and pleasure craft gliding by. We feasted on crusty local bread and honey from the abandoned hilltop village of Old Perithia, washed down with strong Greek coffee. After breakfast we drove to one of the nearby beaches and swam, snorkelled and sunbathed until it was time for Greek salads and beer in one of the local tavernas. We whiled away the afternoons by the pool back at the villa. Languid, indolent afternoons spent sipping gin and tonics and sl
eeping while Niamh kept an eye on Nate, and Stuart and Bill kept an eye on Niamh.
I found their furtive glances as she applied suntan lotion or untied her bikini so she didn’t get a tan line amusing, but I could tell it riled Melanie. Which amused me even more.
Once Nate was in bed with Niamh on babysitting duties, Stuart, Bill, Melanie and I would stroll down the hill to Agios Stefanos to have dinner in one of the beachside tavernas. There, to the soundtrack of crickets and the soft lapping of the sea, we would eat spicy bourdeto, rich pastitsada, or garlicky sofrito, drink glass after glass of the delicate Corfiot white wine and reminisce about the old days before we took a taxi back to the villa, replete and content.
After a nightcap by the pool, I would tiptoe into Nate’s room and watch him sleep for a while, drinking in the softness of his cheeks and the sweep of his eyelashes. I’d kiss him on the forehead and wonder how it was possible to love someone so much.
One night I found Niamh in Nate’s bed, her slender arm flung over him. They were both sound asleep, like the Babes in the Wood in the fairy tale. Niamh was still in the shorts and T-shirt she’d been wearing all day. A picture book was on the floor by the side of the bed. I gave Niamh’s shoulder a gentle shake and said, ‘Hey.’
Her eyes shot open, and her hand flew to her chest.
‘Oh my God, I must have fallen asleep! I’m so sorry, Cleo,’ she muttered, trying to extricate herself without waking Nate.
‘It’s not a problem,’ I whispered back, suddenly reminded how young she really was.
On the Thursday afternoon, three days before we were due to fly home, I went into the villa in search of some paracetamol, leaving Stuart and Nate in the pool. Too much sun and half a carafe of rosé had left me with a banging headache. I searched through the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen with no luck, before heading upstairs to our room. When I couldn’t find any in my handbag or in Stuart’s washbag, I wandered along the landing to the master bedroom to see if Melanie had some.
