Local Girl Missing

by Claire Douglas

  We hug awkwardly. Then he appraises me with a wry smile and I wonder if he’s disappointed that I’m not as he remembers. ‘You’ve hardly changed a bit, Frankie Howe,’ he says, as charming as ever. ‘You still look like a lady.’ And I’m there again, in your bedroom, with Daniel lounging on the bed and teasing us with that sardonic raise of an eyebrow, his grey eyes glinting.

  I laugh. ‘I forgot you used to call me Lady Frankie.’

  ‘Well, you were posh.’ He pushes the hair out of his eyes and the gesture is so familiar, so endearing, that I well up. I blink back tears, annoyed with myself. I’ve never been a crier, that was your domain. I always used to tease you that you lived too close to the well.

  ‘I was never posh,’ I say, my discomfort making me sound harsher than I intended, but I know it will fall on deaf ears. It always has. I was the girl from the big hotel whereas you and Daniel were from the estate, with its late-1960s terraces and tatty garages.

  He fishes a key from his pocket. ‘Come on then, Lady Frankie,’ he teases. ‘Let me show you your castle.’

  I follow him down the long hallway. The ceilings are high, with elaborate cornicing. The stairs are carpeted in a soft biscuit-coloured wool. There are two doors on either side of the staircase with numbers on them. ‘Yours is on the first floor,’ he says, noticing me pausing outside the door on the left. I follow him up the stairs to a wide, square landing. There are two more doors facing each other with a small arched window in between. I go to the window and look out over the bay.

  ‘Wow, fabulous views,’ I say, although my heart sinks. I don’t want to have to look at that pier every day, to be reminded of the place where you went missing. To the place where you died, I correct myself.

  I sense him as he moves closer, to stand behind me. He places a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry that it overlooks the pier,’ he says as if reading my mind. ‘I didn’t think you’d want a hotel in the centre and these apartments are amazing, perfect for Lady Frankie,’ he jokes, lightening the mood. I turn to face him, our noses inches apart.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I lie. ‘You did the right thing, and I’m only here for a bit …’ I trail off and our eyes lock. The air between us changes, becoming thicker with everything that’s been left unsaid over the last eighteen years.

  He breaks eye contact first and turns towards the door on the left. A chrome number 4 glints against the white painted wood. Silently he inserts the key into the lock and throws the door open. The air is stale, as if it’s been shut up for too long.

  I shadow him as he shows me around the apartment. It’s pleasant, with large, airy rooms and neutral painted walls. The bedroom is a small double, overlooking the dustbins in the courtyard at the back. There’s a modern galley kitchen next door. The sitting room’s large bay window overlooks the rough grey seas. The floors are mahogany and creak under my boots. It’s stylishly furnished and obviously for couples rather than families with small kids, judging by the pale grey velvet sofa and low glass-topped coffee table. A widescreen television sits in the corner and there is a cast-iron fireplace opposite the sofa with a stack of logs piled next to it. It’s a luxury place but has an unlived-in vibe, a musty smell that reeks of weeks standing empty.

  ‘It’s only a one-bedroom but my mate says you can stay until next Friday. It’s booked out after that, surprisingly. Someone coming for a long weekend. Otherwise you could’ve stayed longer.’

  I try not to blanch. The thought of staying here for a few days fills me with dread, let alone a whole week.

  ‘I’m not sure how long I’ll be here, Daniel. I’m in charge at the hotel now, my dad … he …’

  I feel Daniel stiffen beside me. ‘I read about your dad,’ he says, turning to look at me. ‘Must have been a huge shock, for all of you.’

  I stare at him in surprise. There was only a small piece in the national press, squashed between the business pages. I was hoping nobody would see it, least of all the residents of Oldcliffe who remember us. Dad’s still so proud, even now.

  ‘It was. The stroke was quite severe …’ I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat.

  His fingers brush my arm and then he takes his hand away and shoves it in his pocket, as though he doesn’t trust himself.

  I don’t tell him that I think my dad will die. That the responsibility of taking on two hotels and opening a third is weighing heavily upon me. That I haven’t got the time to be here on some wild goose chase and that I’m only doing it for Daniel, for old times’ sake. And for you. For us.

  ‘How many apartments are in this block?’ I say as I go to the window. It’s nearly dark outside. He follows me.

  ‘Two upstairs and two down. It’s out of season so I think it’s just the downstairs one that’s occupied this week.’ He pulls a face. ‘You’ll be OK, won’t you? All alone in this big, spooky building?’ He laughs. I feel like I’ve been punched. His laugh is so familiar. It’s so much like yours.

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ I say with a dismissive sniff.

  ‘Not even Greta, wailing for her newborn baby, wanting to punish her cheating husband?’

  ‘Oh, piss off,’ I laugh and punch his upper arm playfully. ‘You haven’t changed, have you? Still acting like an annoying older brother, trying to wind me up.’

  He shrugs, but I can see he’s pleased. And then it hits me. He must miss that relationship since you disappeared. Maybe having me here reminds him of you, of our childhood. Does he really need my help to uncover the truth about your disappearance after all this time? Or does he want me here because I remind him of all that we had?

  And all that we lost.

  While Daniel’s fetching my bag from the car, I go to draw the curtains in the sitting room. The pier is a black silhouette against the darkening sky, the two old-fashioned lampposts near the entrance illuminating some of the broken boards and decaying structure like spotlights on a stage. The dome of the pavilion looms in the distance; an ink stain on the horizon. A shiver runs down my back and I pull the curtains closed.

  I retreat into the kitchen to make us a cup of tea and I’m touched when I notice that either Daniel or the owner went out and bought a few things, like bread, milk and teabags.

  ‘I can’t remember if you have sugar,’ I say as I return to the sitting room, carrying two mugs. He’s lounging on the sofa with my bag at his feet. The fire has been lit.

  ‘No, I’m sweet enough,’ he grins, taking the mug from me. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did you put the milk and teabags in the kitchen?’

  He shrugs. ‘Thought they’d come in handy. What have you got in that holdall? It weighs a ton.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ I tease, perching next to him. ‘Thank you, for the milk and teabags …’ I touch his arm but he stiffens so I take my hand away, the rest of my words dying on my lips.

  His long fingers cradle the mug and he blows onto the tea before taking a sip.

  ‘So, what have you been up to all these years?’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.

  He frowns and grips the mug tighter. I notice a plain silver ring on the third finger of his right hand and I wonder who gave it to him. At first he doesn’t answer and I worry that I’ve offended him somehow. I’m usually intuitive to people’s moods and feelings, knowing when to ask the right questions or issue the perfect compliment to break the ice. In fact, I pride myself on it; it’s an invaluable tool in my line of work. But I’m not sure what the etiquette is for a situation like this. What do you say to the brother of your best friend the day after you’ve learned that her remains have been found? What is the appropriate conversation to have?

  He looks up at me over the rim of his mug. ‘Well, I went off the rails for a bit.’ He shrugs, but looks shamefaced. ‘You know how it is.’

  I nod, remembering your worries about him. His failed GCSEs and lackadaisical attitude to finding a job. Your concerns that he’d stay in Oldcliffe-on-Sea for ever. ‘And then I decided that I needed to follow my
dream. Music.’

  My heart falls. ‘You’re still in the band?’ I remember the band – mainly because they were rubbish, but that didn’t stop them trekking to Bristol most weekends to play in backwater pubs. Daniel wasn’t a bad guitarist; it was mainly that the lead singer, Sid, couldn’t actually hold a tune, but nobody had the heart to tell him.

  He chuckles. ‘Definitely not. I realised I was better at writing about music than making it. So I went to college, got a degree in journalism, became a music journalist.’

  ‘Wow. You got out of this place?’

  He laughs wryly. ‘Don’t sound too surprised. What did you think had happened to me? That I was working in McDonald’s? Or turned to heroin?’

  ‘No,’ I say, not very convincingly.

  ‘Anyway, I was a music journalist for a few years, worked for Melody Maker, then Q. I lived in London, had a great time.’ He smiles as if at some private memory. ‘Now I’m the editor of the local newspaper.’

  ‘You moved back here?’ I can’t keep the scorn from my voice.

  He glares at me and I notice animosity in his eyes. ‘Of course, only recently, but it’s my home and I feel close to Sophie here. I can’t run away for ever. Neither can you.’

  Shame makes me dip my head. ‘I couldn’t stay,’ I say into my lap. ‘When my parents bought their hotel in London it seemed best for me to go with them. A new start. Don’t think badly of me, Dan.’

  His voice is brusque. ‘I don’t think badly of you. You’re here now, aren’t you? When it matters.’

  I look up and he’s staring at me in that way he always used to. Like he could see right through me. You always joked that he had a crush on me, and there were times when I thought so too. I never even entertained anything happening between us. Oh, I flirted with him, of course. And there was a time, a very short time, when I considered the idea of letting him kiss me. But that was the summer we met Jason.

  I take a sip of my tea, my cheeks burning.

  Daniel eventually breaks the silence. ‘What about you? What sort of charmed life have you been living?’ He grins at me but I find it hard to return his smile. A charmed life. I’m sure that’s what everyone else would think to look at my life. I have money, a lovely home, a good job as the director of a chain of hotels. Yet part of me died the night you disappeared.

  Daniel is staring at me expectantly so I spout the usual story: of my marriage to a hedge-fund manager who I’d adored, of our desire to have children, of my failure to conceive, of his clichéd affair with his co-worker and our subsequent divorce. I fail to mention that the alimony I received helped buy this new hotel and I don’t add that I find it hard to trust men now, even solid, dependable Mike.

  As I talk, Daniel sips his tea and nods encouragingly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Franks,’ he says when I’ve finished. ‘I’ve never been married. The right one just never came along.’ My eye flickers to the ring on his finger again. There must have been someone special once. He smiles sadly and my heart flutters. What is it about him? It’s like his grief and love for you has matured him into a man with an emotional intelligence that he lacked when we were young. He might have looked like a tortured artist back then, with his black clothes and morose music, but it was at odds with his happy-go-lucky demeanour. Not like your ex-boyfriend, Leon, all brooding and serious as he recited his angst-ridden poetry.

  ‘I’ve got a plan,’ he says suddenly. ‘We need to talk to everyone who was around that night. I know it’s a long shot, but they might remember something, however small. You’ve only got a week so we’d better get on with it, first thing.’

  I open my mouth to say I’ve got less than a week, that I have to get back to London as soon as possible. But something about his expression makes me close it again.

  ‘Any objections?’ His eyes bore into mine and it feels as though he can read my deepest thoughts. I have lots of objections; I have so much to do that I can’t afford a day off let alone a week. But how can I say this without sounding heartless? Without sounding like I don’t care about you?

  So I gulp down my tea and shake my head, telling Daniel that, no, I don’t have any objections.

  ‘Good,’ he says, ‘because I had a call earlier from the police. They have more information about what they’ve found.’

  My palms immediately start to sweat. ‘And?’

  ‘After years in the sea, Sophie’s body would have decomposed, Franks. But they’ve found a foot. They think it belongs to a woman due to its size. It’s still in its trainer. Adidas. Apparently floating feet can survive for decades in rubber-soled shoes because the fish can’t get at them.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  His face is paler than usual. ‘I’ve given a DNA sample and they’ve asked if I’ll go into the station on Wednesday morning for the result. And of course they need to see if the trainer matches the one they found on the pier after she disappeared. It’s still in police files. Will you come with me? I … I don’t think I can do it on my own.’

  He looks so vulnerable and, despite everything, I like that Daniel needs me, that he wants me to go with him. ‘Of course I will.’ I think of the trainers you were wearing that night. You’d loved those Adidas Gazelles.

  He stands up. ‘I’d better go. But I’ll be here tomorrow nice and early.’ His voice is unnaturally bright. ‘Shall we say nine thirty? I think Leon should be our first stop. Don’t you?’

  I nearly spit out my tea in shock. Leon? Daniel must be mistaken. Leon left Oldcliffe just weeks after you went missing. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say with faux regret, also standing up. ‘The last I heard, Leon was working abroad. Never mind, who’s next on your list?’

  Daniel raises a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I’ve heard he’s back in town, Frankie. I thought you knew.’

  My scalp prickles in horror and I sink back onto the sofa.

  If I’d known I’d be forced to see Leon again, I’d never have agreed to come back.

  4

  Sophie

  Friday, 4 July 1997

  The hot guy who was with Frankie last week is called Leon McNamara. He’s half Irish, like me, but with chocolate-brown hair and the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They are the exact same colour as my indigo Levi 501s.

  ‘Leon’. I love the way it sounds. So unusual. So much cooler than Daniel, or James, or Simon, or any of the other boring boys’ names that I can think of. And it’s not just his name that’s cool. He’s an indie kid, but there is more to him than what music he’s into (which is not just Oasis, by the way. He likes bands I’ve never heard of, bands with animal names: Buffalo Springfield and the Byrds. The Animals even!). He’s quiet and serious. And he reads. Not Playboy or NME, like Daniel, but books, classic novels like The Great Gatsby and Persuasion. I mean, he’s read Jane Austen, for fuck’s sake! But he’s not pretentious, he doesn’t bleat crap because he thinks it sounds good – like some people I could mention from my uni. He’s intelligent without being taught. He grew up on an estate, much like this one, but in Brean. He’s full of contradictions; he’s doing an HNC in computers, yet he writes poetry and reads Jane Austen.

  And he’s totally lush!

  There is just one downside. I will explain.

  It was at The Basement last night when Frankie introduced me to him. I’ve seen her nearly every day since bumping into her. It’s just like old times, as if those three years apart never happened. Maybe that’s how it is when you’ve known someone for as long as I’ve known her? When you meet again it’s like you saw each other yesterday.

  She works in her parents’ hotel from 10–2 p.m., changing bedding and getting rooms cleaned for new customers. She’s getting paid well for it too, much better than I get at the kiosk in town serving slimy fish and greasy chips to tourists. That’s the bonus, I suppose, of working for your parents. I finish at 3 p.m., so we then have the afternoons to ourselves. I feel like a teenager again when I’m with Frankie. We do all the same things we used to: walks on the Grand Pier, playing games
in the arcade, ambling along the beach with candy floss and chatting about life and the future. We often go to the pub at night, usually the Seagull because the beer is cheap even though the place smells of wet dog, but towards the end of this week, when our wages started to run out, we went to the old pier with Daniel and his mates, Sid and Ade from the band, armed with cans of Red Stripe. We sat there for hours, telling each other ghost stories, particularly the one about Greta and her lost baby. In the end I started to feel so frightened that I was glad I had Daniel to walk home with me.

  Anyway, I’m digressing. Back to tonight. To Leon.

  The Basement was impressive and because it was a Thursday night it was cheap to get in. I still can’t believe that while I’ve been at uni, Oldcliffe has become up to date enough to have such a cool club. It’s (funnily enough) in the basement of one of the big restaurants, with its own entrance below ground, and plays all the music I love. It’s small and smoky. Frankie seemed to know everyone; I’m not sure how, but she’s as popular as ever. Especially with the guys. And then she introduced me to Leon.

  He was standing at the bar, nursing a pint. He was wearing a tan leather blazer, dark jeans and desert boots and when he looked up at me with those brilliant eyes it was as though my breath was knocked out of me. But he barely registered me. He sort of snuffled a hello into his pint. Frankie draped herself all over him and ordered us some Diamond Whites. Then she got talking to some guy, leaving Leon and me standing awkwardly next to each other in silence.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ I asked eventually, before realising what I’d said. I was mortified, my cheeks burning. He looked shocked for a second but then his face relaxed and his eyes twinkled. We both started laughing at the same time, which broke the ice.