by Darren Young
But little by little Sandra Preston slowly found her way back into her consciousness, and the image of her sitting at High Cliffs House, watching the waves crash on the rocks below, became sharper.
And then, from nowhere, her mind moved on to the water. She imagined the day: clear and hot, no clouds and only a gentle breeze off the sea; but still the water didn’t take its cue and waves continued to roll, heavily at first when they were thirty yards away and then breaking white as they closed in on the sand. A red flag fluttered in what little wind there was. The lifeguard’s high chair was empty, and would be for at least another hour or so.
She saw a little girl, summer hat on her head, with blonde curls protruding from under the brim, walking near the edge, looking out at the oncoming waves. Her bare feet pattered in the waves as they broke on her feet.
What if a bigger one came in?
What if she stepped out further than she should?
Laura shook her head. But for the first time she began to reassess how sure she was of Sandra’s assertion. She had done the research on rip-currents and knew how dangerous they could be for an adult, never mind a small child who couldn’t swim or even begin to appreciate the danger she might be in.
And if she didn’t go in the sea, why would her hat wash up later?
Could she have drowned?
Could Sandra be wrong?
Her mobile phone buzzed, and the image went away.
She didn’t know the number but she recognised the area code; it was the same one as High Cliffs House. She glanced at David but he was busy talking to Sue, so she let her voicemail system take a message then went outside and then listened to it. It was a woman with a distinctive West Country accent asking her to call back, which she did immediately. The woman worked at the Herald and had taken a call from a member of the public who had seen Laura’s article on Sandra and wanted to speak to her.
‘She pacifically asked for you to call her,’ the woman said, making Laura want to correct her, but instead she scribbled down the details for a Mrs Upson and called her immediately.
The woman who answered asked to be called Maureen. She said she had given a statement to the police at the time of Jessica’s disappearance, which Laura was immediately intrigued by; she hadn’t heard of a Maureen Upson or seen her name in any of the articles or police transcripts she’d managed to find online.
‘What did you tell them, Mrs Upson?’
‘Maureen.’
‘Sorry, Maureen. What did you say to them?’
‘That I’d seen the little girl.’
‘How did you know it was her?’
‘Not that many girls her age walking around on their own. And I saw her picture on the telly later.’
‘Where was she, Mrs … Maureen?’
‘Walking towards the promenade.’
‘Away from the water?’
‘That’s right.’
Laura scribbled a note in her pad and screwed up her face. It didn’t make any sense that this hadn’t come out before, especially given its relevance to Sandra’s theory. There had been no other witnesses that day, Laura couldn’t believe the police would discount anything of such potential significance. She asked the woman what had happened.
‘I don’t think they believed me.’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’
There was a pause. ‘I talk to myself.’
‘Talk?’
‘Folk round here think I’m a bit … strange.’
‘What do you say? To yourself?’
‘All kinds of things.’
‘When do you do it?’
‘When I’ve had a drink.’
Laura grimaced. She had a feeling that was going to be the answer.
‘Had you been drinking that morning, Mrs Upson?’
‘I was drinking a lot then, but mainly in the afternoons.’
‘Are you drinking now?’
‘Do I sound like I am?’
Laura didn’t like to say that she did a little.
‘And you definitely saw her walking away from the sea?’
‘Yes. It was sunny. I was outside. I drink more when it rains, you see.’
‘Did the police take a formal statement?’ Laura asked
‘The next day, but they still didn’t believe me.’
‘Why didn’t they?’
There was another pause, even longer this time. ‘Probably because the day before that I’d told them that I’d taken her.’
‘What? On the day she went missing?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘It was in the afternoon. I’d been drinking by then.’
Laura shook her head. David Weatherall would tell her to run a million miles from a witness this unreliable, but she didn’t want to.
‘I appreciate your calling me,’ she said, with doubtful sincerity.
‘Just trying to help. Like I was back then.’
Laura pictured a chaotic beach with police everywhere, the parents frantic, volunteers joining the search, divers in the water – and then Maureen Upson turning up saying she was responsible for taking the child. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d locked her up, so it was very likely that they would have disregarded anything else she told them.
She sighed and told the woman she would get back to her if she needed her again. It wasn’t much, but if any of it was true, then it would make the drowning theory a little less conclusive. It didn’t prove anything, and it was a long way away from a ‘one per cent chance’.
But Laura couldn’t stop thinking about what had really happened to Jessica Preston.
33 | Laura
Laura walked into the Devon café.
She had said as little as possible to anyone about what she was doing but her instincts had urged her to at least meet with Maureen Upson and look into her eyes. So she called in and told David she’d been sick overnight, and then told her parents that a last-minute place had opened up on a training course in Birmingham and she’d been on the waiting list. Neither her parents nor her boss had asked any questions, and David had been unusually sympathetic, which had made her feel even guiltier about lying to him.
Her meeting had been arranged for midday, and Laura had left six hours earlier than that so that she could also visit the beach Jessica went missing from. Time seemed to have stood still; it looked exactly as Sandra had described, although the weather was overcast, not sunny, and the sand had no people on it. The ice-cream van wasn’t there either. She had walked on to the sand and then gone down to the shoreline and along the edge of the water, trying to picture exactly where the family had been on the day.
By the time she’d got back to the car and driven to the next town, she was a few minutes late. Maureen Upson was waiting for her in the café, a copy of the paper in her hand so that Laura would recognise her but it wasn’t necessary – she was the only customer in there. Laura waved to her and ordered a coffee for herself. She took it over to the table and reimbursed Maureen Upson the two pounds, fifteen pence she had paid for hers. ‘It’s the least I can do. Thank you for seeing me.’
She found the woman friendly and very talkative, and, as far as she could tell, stone cold sober; she’d smelt her breath when she had shaken her hand and given her the coins.
‘Why confess to taking Jessica? You must have known it would look bad,’ Laura asked after a few minutes of small talk.
Maureen Upson smiled. ‘I did a lot of daft things back then.’
‘Did it get you in trouble?’
‘A ticking-off from Detective Whateverhisnamewas.’
‘I bet.’
‘When I’d had a drink, I’d say some pretty stupid things, I’m afraid.’
They talked on, and Laura got her to go into more detail about the day that Jessica went missing. Despite the length of time that had passed, Maureen seemed very clear on things, and it sounded nothing like the ramblings of a local drunk.
‘So you just walked up and
confessed.’
‘I’d left before all the commotion, but I saw the news that afternoon and that’s when I recognised the girl I’d seen. From her picture on TV.’
‘So you called the police?’
The woman nodded and blushed. ‘But I’d been…you know.’
Laura nodded, and roughly sketched the timeline on her pad.
‘But the next day,’ Maureen continued, ‘I remembered it clearly. I knew I’d seen her. She had something in her hand – this pink strap or something. It was glistening in the sun.’
‘Did you tell that to the police?’
‘I called, but they didn’t seem happy to hear from me.’
‘I guess they had a lot on their plate.’
They talked more. Maureen had been leaving the beach after a mid-morning walk when she had seen Jessica. She’d headed off just afterwards, and gone to her small cottage, where she’d spent the afternoon drinking her bottle of choice – she couldn’t remember what that was – and fallen asleep. The woman admitted to Laura that she had had very little recollection of afternoons in those days, and when she’d woken the news was on, she had seen Jessica’s picture on the TV, and she’d picked up the phone.
Laura thanked her, bought her another cup of coffee and left her sitting in the café. It was bleak now, with dark grey, rain-filled clouds overhead, and the wind had picked up, so she hurried back to the pay-and-display and collected her car.
But she had no intention of going home.
High Cliffs House was roughly ten miles back along the coast and when she arrived, without an appointment, she was concerned that she might get turned away, but, when the receptionist called the manager in, she was greeted with a smile.
‘I hoped you’d be back.’
‘You did?’
The manager shook her hand warmly. ‘After you talked to her, Sandra was as bright as I’ve seen her since I started here. I don’t know what it was, but you did more good than anything we’ve tried in the last ten years.’
Laura had been worried that the interview might have had the opposite effect.
‘She’s just finishing her lunch. I don’t think we got properly introduced last time. I’m Violet Stanton.’ The manager showed Laura into her office and asked the receptionist to make a pot of tea for two. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
‘Lovely, thank you.’
The manager sat in her leather chair and smiled. Laura sat opposite, awkwardly returning the smile and fidgeting in the plastic chair.
‘Can I be frank and ask what your intentions are? With Sandra.’
Laura had anticipated the question. ‘I just wanted to follow up after the article, that’s all,’ she lied. ‘I was worried it might have been a lot for her to handle.’
‘She’s tougher than she looks.’
Laura nodded, and wondered if Violet Stanton knew that Sandra didn’t need to be there at all. She looked around at the office, a tidy space with expensive furniture, if only on the manager’s side of the ornate wooden desk.
‘This is a private unit, right?’
Mrs Stanton nodded.
‘It must cost a lot to stay here.’
‘About twenty-five thousand a year, give or take. Is it relevant? I thought you’d finished your research with the article.’
‘Oh, I have. Sorry, I didn’t mean to … ‘ Laura apologised. ‘I just wondered how Sandra could afford to stay here. If we’re being frank with each other.’
She looked directly at the manager, who didn’t flinch. ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss patients’ financial arrangements,’ she said with a smile.
‘Of course not.’
‘Let’s just say,’ Violet continued, leaning forward and seemingly enjoying knowing something Laura didn’t, ‘that there are some generous people about.’
‘People? No, I shouldn’t ask.’
‘An anonymous donor. Paid Sandra’s bill ever since her money ran out.’
‘Wow.’
The receptionist tapped the door and came in with a steaming teapot and two cups and saucers. Violet stopped speaking and began pouring their drinks as she left. ‘I’ve said more than I should. I wouldn’t want—’
‘Already forgotten,’ Laura said, and smiled. ‘As I said, I just wanted to check Sandra was OK.’
‘Grab your tea, then. I’ll take you through.’
Laura was led into the large room and the manager left her at Sandra’s table by the window, winking as she left them alone.
‘Hello, Sandra.’
‘Thought I’d seen the last of you.’ She was staring outside, but Laura heard a softer, gentler tone compared to her previous visit.
‘I was in the area.’
Sandra smiled. ‘Nice article,’ she said, and Laura noticed that a copy of the Herald was lying on the table.
‘Thanks.’
As they sat and talked, Sandra told her that the article had made her feel, for the first time in twenty years, like a victim rather than the cause of her own nightmare. To Laura she seemed more relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted, and she even allowed Bloody Mary to join them for a cup of tea, although after less than five minutes she suddenly lost interest and ran to the far windows and tried to climb out of one.
‘Why don’t you get out of here?’ Laura said as she watched a nurse tell Mary off.
‘What’s left for me out there?’ She gestured towards the window, towards the sea.
‘Family?’
‘Todd’s didn’t want anything to do with me. They blamed me for what happened.’
‘How can they have?’
‘Not just them. Friends stopped calling round. A few didn’t even come to Todd’s funeral. There were more bleeding reporters there than friends. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said Laura. She took out her notebook and thumbed to the last page she had written on. ‘And I wasn’t just in the area. I was here to see Maureen Upson.’
Sandra smiled and nodded slowly. ‘You mean Mad Mo?’
‘You know her? She said she saw Jessica before she went missing.’
‘How could I not know her?’ Sandra snorted. ‘She also said she was the one who took Jessica. Did she tell you that?’
Laura nodded. Sandra looked surprised.
‘Well, then. She’s crazier than Bloody Mary there.’ She nodded towards Mary, who had been told off by the nurse and was sulking on one of the sofas.
‘She also said she drank a lot. But that she was sober when she saw Jessica.’
Sandra’s hand began to shake, making her cup clatter against its saucer.
‘Doubt it.’
‘If she did see her, then Jessica was going away from the water, not towards it.’
Sandra sniffed. ‘That woman doesn’t know what day it is.’
‘She remembered more than you’d think.’
‘Heard on TV, more like.’
‘She was really clear about it. The weather, the promenade, even the sparkly strap Jessica was holding.’
Sandra flinched and put her cup down. She continued to stare at the beach, but Laura could see her hands were shaking more than a little now.
‘What is it?’ Laura asked.
There was a pause that seemed to last for hours. Laura waited for Sandra to speak, her pencil poised on the page.
‘She had a toy dog,’ Sandra said quietly. ‘But I wouldn’t let her take it to the beach that day so she took its lead instead, and pretended she was walking it.’
‘A pink one?’
‘With sparkly little sequins on it.’
‘So Maureen Upson really did see her.’
The words hung in the air between them until the silence was interrupted by Laura’s phone, on silent but vibrating furiously on the table. It was Sue, so Laura excused herself and answered it tentatively, almost whispering and sounding as if she’d just woken.
‘Sorry, Laura, but David wants to know if you’ll be back in tomorrow.’
The editor hated paying people to sit at h
ome, and Laura had heard others in the office talk about getting calls when they were off sick.
She looked at a very pale Sandra Preston staring out of the window.
‘I think,’ Laura said croakily, ‘I’m going to need another day at home.’
34 | Danni
The newspaper was a few days old and its corners resembled dog’s ears, while two large creases ran across the middle. There was a coffee stain on the front where the passenger opposite Danni on the train had knocked over his not-quite-empty cup as he got off. It had been in her bag since the journey to Southampton, except for the countless times she had taken it out and looked at the article on page ten. No matter which part she tried to focus on, her eyes were continually drawn to the picture, as if it were floating from the page.
The grainy picture of Jessica Preston.
Young. Blonde. Pretty.
Roughly two years old. Smiling.
She’d seen the picture before but hadn’t realised it straight away. It had left her mind the instant the police had knocked on the door that stormy night her mother died and turned her life upside down. The events that night had made her completely forget to question why her mother would keep a faded missing persons leaflet in her address book for all that time.
The questions came flooding now.
She wanted to throw the newspaper away, and she tried at the station when she got home from the interview, even folding it in half and putting it into one of the waste bins outside the main entrance, but her hand wouldn’t let go and instead she put it back in her handbag until the next time she could read it.
She hadn’t dared to mention it or show it to Sam. She knew the reaction it would provoke and that her friend would rightly tell her she was putting two and two together and coming up with a number that almost certainly wasn’t four.
Sam’s upbringing had been very different from her own and she’d always, Danni thought, been a little envious. Danni had had, by comparison, a perfect childhood, whereas Sam’s father had walked out on her and her mother before her fourth birthday. The bitter divorce that followed had eaten up all of her mother’s savings, and time she could have been spending with a distraught young girl. Sam had never seen or spoken to her father since.
