The kind woman from the car park turned out to be a producer at the studio and has lent us her office to sit in while the search goes on. Now that the building has been cleared, many of the workers, and the studio audience from the show, are combing the surrounding area, calling Gina’s name. At the same time, police are questioning everyone.
‘We’ll find her, Ms Price,’ everyone says to me, or variations of that statement.
She can’t have gone far.
We can follow the CCTV footage.
Everyone in London is looking for her.
But I know how this goes. The bad person takes my child. The bad person hurts my child.
When DCI Stevenson arrives, I realise that Gina has been missing for over four hours.
‘It’s all right, Emma,’ he says. ‘Stay as calm as you can, I know it’s hard.’
‘I should be looking for her,’ I say.
‘You’re doing the right thing by letting the police work,’ he says, but I don’t agree. ‘I’m going to go and liaise with them now. They might not let me help, because this is beyond my jurisdiction, so there may be a limit on how much I can do.’
I nod. I’ve already spoken to the detective at the Metropolitan Police Service and she has organised the search so far.
‘I should go back out there,’ Aiden says.
‘No, I want you with me.’ I reach out and take his hand. Squeeze it.
When Stevenson leaves, Aiden turns to me, his eyes slightly narrowed.
‘You know who took her, don’t you?’ he says.
‘I think it was your old primary school teacher. Amy. She was involved in your abduction but there wasn’t enough evidence to convict her. I was stupid. I decided to handle it my own way and now I think she’s getting revenge on me.’
‘Hugh talked about Amy sometimes,’ Aiden says. ‘But I never saw her in the bunker.’
I cast my mind back to my final conversation with Amy, the one where I told her to get out of the village. I came into the bunker and watched him sleep. Her words send a shiver down my spine. I had her life in my hands, and I allowed that repulsive human being to live.
I think back. Two weeks after I’d threatened her, I drove past Amy’s house and saw her car gone, the curtains closed. I’d even asked a neighbour, who said they thought she was on holiday. They said she’d quit her job as a teacher and gone on some long vacation. It’d seemed like enough at the time, because I didn’t expect her to come back. Later I learned I was wrong. We were in the process of searching for a new place to live and left for Manchester not long after. I’d kept what I did to her a secret because I knew I’d broken the law, but also because I’d been convinced that my threats had worked. That Amy Perry was gone for good.
She wasn’t. One day, it came up in casual conversation with Sonya that Amy had been living at her house in Singer Lane the entire time and I’d had no idea. The spineless cow had pretended to move on when she’d actually sneaked back into the village as soon as my back was turned.
But by this point I’d been living in Manchester for three years with my family and I’d begun to move on. My once murderous rage had fizzled down to a low roar. All I did when I heard the news was park my car outside her house and look at her through the window. She’d seen me all right.
Six months ago, I heard through the Bishoptown grapevine, via Rob’s family, that she’d moved on for good this time. It’d seemed like a victory then, but it wasn’t.
Now I wondered. What if I’d done more? What if I’d handled it better?
I think back to that moment in her house when I’d drawn blood with my knife. What else had she said to me that day? That she’d admired Hugh’s twisted desires? What kind of a woman says that? And if what she said was true, what does she have planned for my daughter?
I pull Aiden closer to me and he doesn’t resist or squirm for a change. His expression has a resolve to it that I’ve never seen before. ‘Anything you can remember about her could be important.’
Aiden sits down in the chair next to mine and our hands break apart. ‘I don’t always remember. I went away when I was in there, sometimes when he was talking.’
‘This is for Gina,’ I remind him, not that I need to.
His dark eyelashes rest along the delicate skin beneath his eyes. He nods his head.
‘Hi Ms Price.’ The detective for the Metropolitan Police Service walks into the room. A woman in her forties with thick curly hair to her shoulders, introduced to me as DI Khatri. ‘I wanted to talk more about Amy Perry. I know you mentioned that you believe she may have abducted your daughter.’
‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘She was involved with Hugh Barratt who kidnapped my son, as you know.’
‘We’d like you to review some CCTV footage if you can. Perhaps you can identify Amy from the video.’
I rub my sweaty palms along my trousers as we sit waiting for the footage to move to the appropriate section. Aiden and I are sat closest to the screen, leaning over it. Stevenson stands behind me; DI Khatri to our right.
‘This is the clearest image we can find of the red-haired woman,’ Khatri says.
The video continues for another few seconds before a woman comes into view and my heart begins to race. Gina. I can’t help it, my attention goes straight to my little daughter, and I almost forget to look at the woman. DI Khatri pauses the image so that I can take my time. It’s a good thing she does.
‘That’s definitely Gina,’ I say, and Aiden nods in agreement.
The woman, though. She has her head down, with hair covering her face. Most of her body is obscured by Gina, who she’s holding against her hip. Gina’s chin rests on the woman’s shoulder. I don’t see any discomfort in Gina’s posture, but then Amy used to be a primary school teacher and she’s good at putting children at ease. My stomach flips at the thought of Amy being around so many young children. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I allow my eyes to examine every part of the image, from the long hair, to the body, to the hips and legs. I think about how Amy held herself, how she moved.
‘Can you press play?’ I ask.
I watch Amy walk along the lobby. I watch her walk out of the building in plain sight.
All the time I try to remember her gait, the angle of her shoulders, the way she moved when I knew her. Did Amy slouch? Did she stoop? None of that is obvious with her carrying Gina.
‘I can’t tell,’ I say eventually, letting out a long sigh. ‘Without seeing her face it’s hard to know. Gina covers most of her body. What about you, Aiden?’
‘I can’t say for sure,’ he replies.
‘We have more footage of her,’ Khatri says.
The security guard leans over my shoulder and brings up a different recording. This time the woman is alone. She’s walking through the lobby of the building with her head down again. I notice that she’s tucked herself behind a group of people, probably pretending to be with them, when she hands over a ticket to the guard. Even during this process, she keeps her head turned in a different direction, as though distracted. What she’s really doing is making sure the cameras don’t manage to record a good shot of her face.
I scrutinise every part of her. It certainly could be Amy. She’s the right height. Her build is slimmer than I remember, but then she could have lost weight. I see now that there’s a heavy fringe over her face. She’s dressed in jeans and a plain top, nothing easily identified, and she carries a medium sized bag, large enough for a change of clothes.
‘It could be her, but I can’t say for sure. She’s the right height, but Amy had mousy hair with blonde highlights, not red. She was always a little dumpy, but she could have lost weight. She could have dyed her hair, too.’
‘We believe this woman started the fire,’ Khatri says. ‘We have footage of her coming out of the ladies’ toilet a few minutes before the fire alarm went off. We think her plan was to wait until there was enough chaos to snatch Gina, but it just so happened that she was able to do it while Be
cky was distracted, a few moments before the alarm went off. That gave her a better head start and is making our job harder. But rest assured, Ms Price, we’re scouring the area. She’s going to show up on more CCTV. This is London.’
‘What was the ticket for?’ I ask.
‘She was a member of the studio audience for your interview,’ Khatri says in a matter of fact voice.
Next to me, I’m aware of Aiden lowering his face into his hands. Amy planned all of this. She saw the announcement that Aiden and I would be giving an interview, she applied for the ticket, she turned up and she took my child.
‘Then you can trace her ticket? Find out if it’s her?’
‘There’s no Amy Perry in the records. If it is her, she used false contact details to download the ticket. We’re looking into it right now.’
‘What else are you doing?’ I ask.
‘We’re going to check Ms Perry’s house in Bishoptown-on-Ouse and we’re gathering as many witnesses as we can.’
‘As far as I know she moved out of that house about six months ago, but I don’t know where she went.’
‘Well, we’ll look into it. We may also ask you to do a press conference if it’s needed.’
If it’s needed means if Gina doesn’t turn up today. She could spend tonight somewhere cold and dark with a woman she doesn’t know. Frightened and alone.
‘Do it all, DI Khatri,’ I say. ‘Do everything in your power and then do more.’
She nods.
‘I mean it. Because I’ll do everything in my power too.’
A flicker crosses her face. I’m not sure if it’s doubt, or fear.
Chapter Eight
AIDEN
Stay strong.
We’re thinking of you.
She’ll be found.
Your family is cursed.
You probably deserve this.
Staring at the comments on my Instagram posts turns the words into strange poems. Soon they imprint on my mind. Your family is cursed. We’re thinking of you. Your family is cursed. Stay strong. You probably deserve this.
I move into my direct messages.
FAITH: I’m so sorry.
FAITH: My heart is broken.
ME: It’s all my fault. I should’ve listened to Mum.
FAITH: Why would you say that?
ME: The kidnapper was in the audience.
ME: It’s because of my interview. I pushed for this. It’s all my fault.
FAITH: You are a wondrous human being. No one has more light in them than you. It’s not your fault and it never could be.
ME: I wish I could believe that.
I put my phone away as the police move us from the studios to a Holiday Inn about a five-minute drive away from the area. We check into the same room. Mum puts on the TV and we watch the news. There are a few words about Gina scrolling along the bottom of the screen. That’s it.
The newspapers will tell a different story. Mum has been asked to provide photographs of Gina to help the investigation, and I know which ones she’s chosen. Gina in the park, sat at the top of the slide, her hair in two pigtails. Wide smile. The papers will print them in colour because those pictures will break people’s hearts. She has Jake’s eyes, and they’re bright with happiness.
I lie down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. I never tell Mum this, but I remember the coldness of the water on my skin after Jake pushed me into the river. I remember swallowing it, and my lungs burning. I remember being grateful for the hands that pulled me out and feeling that I was finally safe.
How long did that feeling of safety last for me?
How long will it last for Gina?
‘I’m taking you to your mummy.’ I can imagine the kidnapper saying that. Then she lifts Gina into the air and places her on her hip. Shall we find her together?
Gina loves people. No matter how hard Mum fights to keep Gina just for us, she loves nothing more than to be doted on. Was I like that? I remember snippets of my time before the bunker. Blurry faces. Bright paint. Lots and lots of smiles. So much attention from everyone.
Sometimes Mum gets the photo albums out and we flick through them to see me as a child. I’m like Gina, grinning, climbing, running.
The bunker took it all away.
I can’t stop thinking about what could be happening to her. It’s late now and I know that Gina is going to spend the night with a stranger in a strange place.
Mum shuts the curtains against the dark, and any photographers with a long lens who might want to take our picture. We have to protect ourselves as much as we have to protect Gina. You can’t leave the door open at a hotel.
‘Aiden,’ she says. ‘Do you think it’s Amy, too? Do you think Amy took Gina?’
I look at her, at the panic in her eyes, and the way she wrings her hands. ‘I do if you do. I never really knew Amy.’
She paces the room. ‘I keep thinking about the trial and the investigation after you came home. Remember how much they asked you about whether Hugh mentioned other children? About whether Hugh might have wanted to or was planning to kidnap more children?’
My spine straightens. ‘I remember.’
‘What if he did? And what if Amy is following some old plan of his?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know.’
She chews on a thumbnail and mumbles to herself. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’
This room is around the same size as the bunker. How many steps was it? Ten? Twenty? Perhaps twenty when I was younger and ten as I grew older. The details are already beginning to slip away.
My life is in two halves now. The ten years outside of the bunker. The ten years inside.
Another reference to Gina scrolls along the bottom of the screen. Four-year-old Gina Price is missing in the White City area of Hammersmith, London. She is the younger sister of Aiden Price, the boy from the bunker.
That was the title of the book they wanted either me or Mum to write. The Boy from the Bunker. Or The Boy from the Woods. Both snappy titles.
I don’t want Gina’s life to be a book title. But if it is, it’s all my fault.
The comments keep popping up on my posts and in my direct messages. Nearly all of these people are complete strangers, aside from Faith. There are a few fans I recognise, too. Regular commenters. Since I decided to start a more public persona, I’ve had to accept that there are people out there wanting to follow everything I do. But there are some that comment so often that I frequently wonder whether to delete my profile altogether. But then I wouldn’t be able to contact Faith, and I’d miss her. When I think about it, I know so little about her. I don’t know what she looks like, because her profile picture is a black circle. I don’t know her last name, because she’s never told me. But what she has told me is that she knows how I feel, she hears what I have to say and she supports what I decide to do.
Faith and I first bonded over art and photography. She used to comment on my pictures, and I enjoyed her strange, modern style of photographing creepy old buildings with creepy abandoned dolls. Then one day she sent me a private message and our conversations started.
I glance over at the second bed where Mum is on the phone to Dad. He’s offering to help, but not able to do anything and she’s losing her patience with him. She’s completely distracted while I read through my messages.
FAITH: Aiden my heart is breaking.
FAITH: Your precious sister. Let me help you. Please.
FAITH: I can be a shoulder for you to cry on.
ME: I’d like that.
A love poem.
Chapter Nine
EMMA
I take every single newspaper and lay them all out over the hotel bed. Each and every one of them has a picture of my girl on the front page. There she is, smiling, hair in pigtails, dressed in a top with little pictures of cats all over it. I gave a selection to the police, choosing a variety from different angles, hoping that it might help the general public find her. But one constant is her smile. Every pa
rent thinks their child is a treasure, but I know it of her. She’s special. Right now, this is as close as I can be to my daughter without her being here.
With each newspaper, it surprises me who they’ve found to interview. Many chose to gather quotes from eyewitnesses at the scene, others called ‘friends’ in Bishoptown. But they aren’t real friends. Most aren’t even people I talk to. One plucky reporter managed to get a quote out of Sonya. Our hearts break for Emma.
Her words are no comfort, they merely remind me that I’m almost completely alone in this. Gina doesn’t have a father or any grandparents, unless you count Sonya and Peter, Rob’s parents. I don’t, though, because although they’re supportive, they aren’t related to her. She has me and she has Aiden, and that’s all.
And who do I have? Perhaps, before Gina’s kidnapping, it could be true to say that I began to pull away from Rob. Our relationship is a complex one built on rocky foundations. First love remains alluring no matter what, but that doesn’t negate the pain we went through when we thought Aiden had died, and the way it pushed us apart. Part of me wants to open my heart and let him in, which is something I know he wants, but I’ve never quite got there. But where does it leave me? Alone.
I haven’t slept, and I’m sure that’s obvious to Stevenson when he turns up with coffees and pastries.
‘You need to eat something,’ he says, using a tone of voice that I imagine he uses on the young offenders, the ones that need to grow up and get out of crime.
Or maybe it’s because he’s a dad.
I take a croissant and bite the end, brushing crumbs away from the newspapers. I can’t bear the thought of the pastry crumbs and coffee rings that will inevitably spread across pictures of my child all around the country.
‘This is Tina,’ Stevenson says, gesturing to a slim, blonde woman hovering in the doorway. ‘She’s your family liaison officer. Come in, Tina.’
Stolen Girl Page 5
