by Sanjida Kay
‘Zoe. Glad you came. I was just about to send Ruby to pick you up. How’s the lad?’ he says, when I get to the police station. ‘Ruby says you think Haris poisoned him, and that’s how he ended up in ICU.’
‘He did poison him! Did she tell you about the spindle tree in his garden?’
I have to believe it was Haris. Because to go along with what Jack says happened is unthinkable. Collier gestures to a chair. Clegg sits next to me, stretching out his long legs. We’re in the same room I’ve sat in to speak to the two detectives every time we’ve come here: it’s small with linoleum tiles and bars against the window. The walls are painted a horrid creamy-yellow, the paint thick and clotted. We’re sitting in the police version of comfy chairs around a coffee table, as if to emphasize that this is a more informal meeting.
‘It’s not enough, Zoe. It’s not proof. Your little boy could have found those berries almost anywhere in Ilkley and eaten them. Those trees grow all over the place.’
Collier pulls over another chair and Clegg shifts his feet awkwardly, shuffling them under the table.
‘I wanted to tell you in person. I’m afraid Haris is going to be released later today, Zoe.’
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘We have no evidence. We’ve nothing to tie him to your daughter. The DNA results came back this morning. He’s not related to Evie. He’s not her father.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t hold him any longer. And we’ve had to scale down the alert on the ports and airports.’
Collier gives me a look from beneath his eyebrows. The hairs are wiry and unkempt. I imagine there’s no Mrs Collier to help him keep them under control. Clegg looks away. He’s not yet hardened to other people’s pain.
‘But –’
I can’t take it in. Evie has the same colouring as Haris; the same green-brown eyes, dark hair, olive skin – Collier said so himself – the same artistic temperament.
‘Could the lab have made a mistake? They do, don’t they? They get things wrong. DNA can be contaminated.’
I was sure he was her father. Even if he’s not her father, it doesn’t change the fact that he took her. He was obsessed with me. He wished he could destroy me when I didn’t want to have an affair with him. He tried to kill Ben. And he’s taken Evie as revenge. How can I convince Collier? How can they not see? Surely Ruby has told them what happened between me and Haris? There’s no point hiding anything now that Ollie knows the truth.
Ruby comes in with a tray of tea. She hands me a cup made just the way I like it – weak and milky. I’ve never drunk this much tea in my life.
‘I’m sorry, Zoe,’ she says. ‘I told DCI Collier what you told me about Haris and your relationship. But he’s right. We have no proof. We can’t find any evidence that Evie was ever with him, or even met him. We have to move on.’
‘We still have Mr Mitchell in custody,’ says Clegg.
‘Haven’t you found out any more?’
‘The friend he was with vouches for him – once he got to the Lakes. We’re trying to track down any other climbers who might have spotted him. He can’t prove he left when he said he did, and that he didn’t take Evie with him. Although Forensics haven’t found any evidence she was in his car or his tent,’ says Collier.
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘I’m afraid not. But I do have something else I wanted to talk to you about.’
My chest tightens. What is Collier going to tell me? That he thinks Jack Mitchell really did take Evie? That his climbing story was a cover for whatever he did with my child? Or that Jack handed Evie to my husband before he left? Collier gives me a manila folder.
‘Take a look at these.’
I open the folder slowly. I’m not sure what to expect. Something terrible. There might be blood. I don’t want to see whatever is inside. The last time Collier showed me photos, it was a mugshot of Haris; it was how I discovered he’d done seven years in Leeds Prison. I try to swallow but saliva sticks in my throat.
The first photograph is of Evie. It’s black and white. She’s smiling. She’s wearing leggings and a vest. She has her back to the camera and is holding something – a blanket or a shawl. The edges of the fabric are slightly blurred as if she’s going to throw it. She’s looking over her shoulder and laughing. In the second one, she’s wearing a tutu and a vest; her legs are bare. She’s fallen backwards, as if into an explosion of tulle. Her eyes are closed and she’s giggling. You can see the long, lean length of her thighs; the edge of her knickers. In the third photo she’s wearing pants and a vest and nothing else. She’s stretched out on the sofa. She’s smiling.
There is one more photo. I pick it up slowly. My hands are shaking as I turn it over. In this one, she’s serious. She’s looking at herself in the mirror. She’s adjusting her tiara; in the other hand she’s holding a wand. There’s a lost innocence about her and a certain weariness; she looks like a child beauty queen. She’s wearing strappy sandals and a shiny dress. It’s the Frozen outfit, the one she wore to Ben’s party, the one I found a fragment of on the moor; the one I didn’t buy her. In the mirror is the reflection of the man taking the photo. His face is partly obscured by the camera. It’s a good one – a Nikon SLR – same as mine. The flash has gone off, so his features are blurred behind a star of light. It’s given the dress sharp edges and shrunk Evie’s pupils to pin-pricks as if she’s been drugged. But I can still tell who it is. Jack Mitchell.
‘We searched his house,’ says Clegg. ‘There’s lots of photos like this – children half undressed, putting on costumes. Your head teacher has gone through them with us. They’re all kids Mitchell babysat for or childminded after school.’
‘There’s nothing indecent, as such,’ says Ruby. ‘Nothing else that would incriminate him on his computer. Only these photos.’
Collier takes the folder from me.
‘I need to speak to him.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that,’ Collier says again.
I’m shaken by Collier’s revelations and I don’t notice her. She’s so close to me, she’s able to reach out and touch me. When she puts her hand on my arm, I start. I’m aware of the smell of lilies before I realize who it is.
‘Zoe, is there any news?’
It’s Hannah. I’ve walked out of the police station in such a daze I almost careered right into her. I wasn’t aware of the time – it must be the children’s break. It was only last Thursday that I did the school run and already I’ve lost track of the things that used to bookmark my days.
I shake my head and wonder whether to tell her what the police said about Jack. I don’t know what I think about it myself yet. I don’t trust my own instincts any more.
Hannah is so pale she looks ill – maybe she’s coming down with a bug. Looking after Evie’s class on her own must be exhausting. What can she be thinking about Jack? She glances away from me and winds her scarf more tightly round her neck and hooks it over her head. It’s cold and she must have forgotten her hat.
‘They’ve released Haris, haven’t they?’
I nod.
‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this, but—’
‘What? What is it?’
She looks back at me and the winter light catches her pale green eyes. She grips my arm again. ‘It’s something that Evie said before... before... You know I said I was trained in play therapy? I gave her some dolls—’
‘But I didn’t ask you to do any play therapy with her.’
She bows her head and lets go of my arm. ‘Yes, but I didn’t steer her into a role-playing session, honestly. I just gave her the dolls. I asked her to tell me a story about them.’ She bites her lip.
‘What did she say?’ There’s a heaviness in my chest. It hurts to breathe.
‘She said they were a family – a mummy, a daddy and a little girl called Evelyn.’
‘No baby brother called Benedict?’
‘No.’
‘And what happened in Evie�
��s story?’
‘I don’t know whether to say anything now. I shouldn’t have started telling you…’
‘Just say it. Please.’ I want to shake her, to make her tell me, although inside I’m cringing.
‘She said that the mummy and the daddy took their daughter up onto the moor. They had a picnic. They’d brought all of her favourite food – cheese sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off and strawberry-pink cupcakes – and when the little girl had finished eating, she looked around for her mummy and the daddy. But they’d gone. They’d left Evelyn on the moor by herself.’
It’s as if Hannah has punched me in the stomach. I take a ragged gulp of air.
Hannah says, ‘I’m so sorry, Zoe, I know it sounds hurtful, but I think she was trying to work out some abandonment issues. You know, because of the adoption.’
‘Why are you telling me this now?’
I want to say that it’s none of her business: Evie knows we love her and we would never leave her. Or is she implying that Ollie and I abandoned her on the moor? ‘In Real Life,’ as Evie would say.
Hannah looks as if she’s about to start crying. ‘I wondered…’ She looks away and her scarf slips from her head; her blonde hair gleams like gold. I think of Rapunzel and all the other doomed princesses that Evie is obsessed with. ‘They’ve stopped the search across the moor, haven’t they? I thought – perhaps Evie has run away? All her stories are about the moor. She could be there. You should tell the police to keep looking!’ She grips the sleeve of my coat. ‘We can’t give up.’
I pull away from her. How dare she imply that Evie has run away from me?
‘I will never give up,’ I say, and walk swiftly away from her, back up the hill, my throat constricting tighter and tighter.
Should I ask the police to resume their search of the moor? Could Evie have simply run off? No, she’s got our child all wrong; Evie writes stories about the moor but she wouldn’t hide there. I try not to think of that other, fictional little girl, eating cupcakes and then turning round to see she is entirely on her own in the middle of the moor, with only the rowan trees and the stonechats for company. A fictional child, maybe, but one created out of my daughter’s imagination.
Ollie is cleaning the house when I return. There’s a ferocious intensity to the way he’s wiping down and buffing the stainless steel. Ben has a cloth too and is copying him.
‘He’s got pictures,’ I say. ‘Photos of Evie.’
Saying the words out loud makes me feel leaden.
Ollie is very still.
‘What kind of photos?’
Ben takes the opportunity to run over to his father and plant a dribbly kiss on his cheek. Ollie sits on the floor and pulls him onto his lap.
‘Black and white. Artistic looking.’ I swallow uncomfortably. My breathing has grown laboured and shallow. ‘Wearing that Frozen dress. And one of her in her vest and knickers.’
Ollie pushes Ben off and rushes outside. I watch him through the French windows, raging, kicking the chestnut tree, howling and sobbing. Ben starts crying too. I pick him up and cuddle him. We should do something with him. Make buns. Get paints out. Roll Play-Doh. He’s used to being at nursery in the mornings, with lots of other children and organized activities. I wait until Ollie has calmed down and then I go outside and we stand together in the cold, wet garden, holding each other and Ben until our son toddles off and starts chucking sand about and gets some in his eye.
Later that afternoon, Ruby calls. I pray it’s good news.
‘Yes?’
‘Zoe, I’m ringing about Jack Mitchell.’ She pauses. When I don’t say anything – I can’t, I’m holding my breath – she says, ‘He’s been released. There isn’t anything to charge him with. No concrete evidence. Just those photos. They look bad but they’re not pornographic. And there’s nothing else on his computer that’s incriminating.’
I let the phone drop to my side. Evie has been gone for four days and we’re no closer to finding her. I stand and look out of the sitting-room window, across the valley. It’s dark already, with a chink of light over the hill. The blades of a line of wind turbines catch the last remnant of the setting sun.
Ruby’s voice is muffled: ‘Zoe? Zoe?’
Jack Mitchell. The last person to have seen my daughter. Now that he’s been released, suspicion is going to fall back on my husband. I disconnect the call.
I’ve always wanted to do well with my art, but I’ve never been much of a planner. I didn’t plan my career, or map out my life. I wanted to paint and I wanted Ollie and I wanted to have children. Ollie is the one who plans, who wants things to be orderly, who likes to take charge and be in control. Ollie chose our house and organized the interior design. I was just thankful I had somewhere beautiful to live and, if I’m honest, I always felt a little guilty at having so much when me and mum had so little. Somehow I’ve ended up in the latte-drinking classes.
But what’s happened to Evie, to us, has taken away the small amount of order, the semblance of control I did have over my life. I feel lost, adrift, with nothing to cling on to. I’m literally helpless. How can I find my child? What can I do to save her? The police had two suspects and now they have none. They’re bound to be suspicious of my husband again. And Ollie, who was once my anchor, is no longer a stabilizing force in my life. I need him to be. I need him to be there for us. I need my marriage to work. And all I have is hope – that we will find her, that Evie’s still alive, that we will be a family again.
‘I’m going to Jack’s,’ I tell Ollie. ‘He’s been released.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ he says.
‘No, I can’t take —’
‘We’ll bring Ben.’
He’s grimly determined and there’s no point arguing with him.
We drive to Mornington Road. It’s just two streets over from the house Mum lived in before she died: a row of identical narrow, red-brick houses. There are no front gardens, the doors open straight onto the pavement; most evenings, there’d be kids playing out, kicking balls up and down, cycling trikes along the road. Skipping. Who skips these days? Now it’s dark and cold and the streets are choked with cars. There’s no one around. Our breath freezes in a cloud around our faces when we step out of the car. I pull my coat more tightly around myself and dig my hands deep into my pockets. Our footsteps echo hollowly as we walk in silence down the street.
When Jack comes to the door, he looks terrible. His skin is grey and waxy. Two nights without sleep, one of them in a cell, is the least of what’s happened to him.
His bottom jaw goes slack when he sees me and then he stutters, ‘Zoe. Ollie.’ He looks as if he’s about to cry. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Where is she?’ Ollie shouts.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ His voice goes high-pitched at the end and cracks. He looks up and down the street and then shuffles backwards. ‘Will you come in? Please. Just for a moment.’
Jack has knocked through the wall between the sitting room and the kitchen and it’s one open space, with a modern-looking breakfast bar at the far end. It’s all painted white – even the wooden floorboards are white. I stop. I’ve been here many times before but I’ve never given it a thought. I’m looking at it with different eyes now. I put Ben down and he runs over to a white Ikea set of shelves with fuchsia and lime-coloured canvas drawers full of toys and children’s books.
There’s a chest at one end, almost dominating the room. On the wall opposite are three framed black and white photographs of children. They’re close-ups of their faces. The kids are smiling, eyes wide and bright, tiny teeth breaking through their gums, their smooth skin glowing. I wonder if he has hung the other pictures. If I walked round his house, would I find a framed photograph of my daughter in a state of undress?
He sees me looking at them and shifts uneasily.
‘Can I get you a drink? A cup of tea?’
‘Sit down, Jack,’ I say, and he does.
Even the sofas are w
hite but they have bright green and pink throws over them. There are some fake flowers in a plastic vase on the mantelpiece but nothing else, no clutter. I can see why children love being here: there’s space to run around, but it’s small enough to feel cosy; there are no dark corners, nothing they might break, and the focus is on chairs to jump on and toys to play with. Ben tips up one of the boxes full of toys and laughs with delight at the clatter they make as they fall across the whitewashed wooden floor.
Jack clasps his hands in his lap and stares from me to Ollie. He looks as if he’s going to be sick. He’s a small, slight man. I never knew he was into rock climbing, but if it really was what he was doing in the Lake District, it’s the perfect sport for someone as light and sinewy as he is. When I thought of him as a child-man, almost in a state of arrested development, I meant it mentally – that he preferred the company of children – but now I see I must have been thinking of it as a physical trait too. Jack has curly hair and large brown eyes. His features are elfin-like, his skin smooth, with stubble poking through in a sporadic pattern as if he hasn’t sufficient testosterone to generate proper facial hair. I know from the head teacher that he’s in his early to mid-thirties, but he looks younger. Then again, you couldn’t put an age to his face or frame; he looks timeless, or out of time, like Peter Pan. Or Dorian Gray.
‘I promise you,’ he says, ‘I’ve never hurt Evie. I’m so fond of her. And those photographs – I guess the police showed them to you – there was nothing indecent about them. None of her naked. She was playing. She loved dressing up. I’m not a paedophile. They were all taken with her permission. I deleted any she didn’t like.’
A shudder runs through me. ‘A seven-year-old can’t give you her permission. You should have asked me. You should have spoken to me about them.’
‘You’re right. I should have. You can have all of them. The prints and the digital copy. I’ll delete everything from my computer.’
I think about how long Jack has been looking after Evie. Since she was two. How many photographs are we talking about? Five years of a little girl’s life.
