Little Girl Lost (Detective Robyn Carter crime thriller series Book 1)

by Carol Wyer

  I nip over to the bench where I was sitting, slide my hand into the space above it and extract the spray container, putting it into my bag with care. I pull my book out of my bag and race out again.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Watts,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t have done my homework without it.’

  ‘He smiles, locks the door and leaves, all thoughts of me forgotten as the aroma of sausages and beefburgers fills his nostrils.

  Of course, I don’t carry out my plan immediately. That would certainly draw attention to me or to someone in our class. I wait. I put up with Chloe’s torments for another three days. She and her revolting cronies have now started to put pegs on their noses when they see me. Someone has left anti-dandruff shampoo on my desk. I scowl and ignore them. I can put up with them. It won’t happen for much longer.

  ‘She’s rank,’ I hear as I sidle into the changing rooms for PE. ‘Her hair is so greasy. Why doesn’t she look after herself? She’d be okay if she made some effort.’

  ‘’Cos she’s a skank. And, she’ll never be okay.’

  ‘It’s almost like she wants to look horrible.’

  ‘Maybe she does. She certainly doesn’t want to mix with anyone. Maybe she’s nuts.’

  ‘She looks crazy some days. And she talks to herself. I heard her muttering in the corridor. She was talking and answering someone but there was no one there. Mad. She’s definitely mad.’

  They are clearly talking about me. One of them is right. I don’t want to be pretty. I don’t want to look nice. I know what happens to pretty girls. In fact, I’ll be doing Chloe a favour when I carry out my plan. My father lets out a warm chuckle. He’s rather proud of what I’ve come up with. So am I. I decide to give games a miss today and leave the changing rooms to find the perfect spot for my revenge.

  * * *

  It’s not until the weekend that I get the opportunity to carry out my plan. I’ve been waiting outside her house all morning. Chloe is going to town to meet Jason Moffat. I overheard her bragging to her friends about it. She’s wearing a tight top that makes her tits look even bigger than normal and jeans that look like they’ve been painted on. Jason Moffat is one of the most popular boys in the school. He captains the school football team and is older than us by two years. He’s sixteen and will be leaving school this year. There’s talk that West Bromwich Albion is interested in having him on their junior squad.

  Chloe’s face is plastered in make-up and she has a confident swagger as she heads to the bus stop.

  She doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach her from the opposite direction. My hair is hidden under a baseball cap and I am wearing a man’s jacket stolen from a charity shop. I’ve padded the shoulders so I look much larger than I am. I actually look like a bloke. I’ve even drawn a slight moustache under my nose with eyebrow pencil and made marks on my face that look like stubble. My father thought I’d done an excellent job. ‘You could be an actress or work in film,’ he said as I admired my reflection in the mirror. ‘Even I hardly recognise you.’

  There is no one else in the street. Chloe is so busy staring at her phone she doesn’t see me until the last minute. She looks up in surprise as she almost walks into me.

  ‘Stupid girl,’ I spit and lift the container and squirt it at her. She turns her head but too late and the hydrochloric acid runs down the left-hand side of her face and dribbles over her wide mouth. She screams dramatically, scrubbing at her cheek and lips and then howls as the pain sets in, dropping to her knees on the pavement.

  I run off at speed and when I have cleared the corner, I abandon my jacket together with the cap, stuffing them into a carrier bag that was concealed in the jacket pocket. I wipe the make-up from my face with a wet wipe and saunter away, attracting no more attention than usual. I’ll dump the bag outside the charity shop where I nicked the jacket. They’ll get it back and a nice cap to boot. You shouldn’t really steal from charity, after all.

  I allow myself a smirk of satisfaction. Chloe will now understand what it is like to be a misfit and laughed at. She’ll never be the same again. Well, that makes two of us, I muse.

  24

  Izzy was asleep and Jackson was not due back until late evening. There had been no more cruel phone calls. She had digested Jackson’s words and his response to her accusations and decided the caller was trying to shake her marriage. If he or she rang again, she was going to let rip. When Jackson returned after their argument, neither had spoken about it. Abigail was confident they’d get over it. Their relationship was strong enough to weather a few petty arguments.

  She’d phoned Claire earlier. Claire’s voice had announced that she was out of the studio and would get back to her as soon as she could. Zoe had answered on the fifth ring. She was apologetic: ‘Sorry, Abby. I’m at a fitness conference in Harrogate for the next two days. It’s all about health and safety. Not supposed to have my phone on. Have to go. I’ll chat to you when it’s over,’ she had whispered before ringing off.

  Abigail picked up her phone and thumbed through the apps. It had been a while since she’d checked her Facebook account. The app wouldn’t open so she went into a search engine and brought up her profile. As she did so her flesh went cold. Her profile picture had been changed and now showed a naked woman sitting on a chair – it was the photo that hung in their bedroom.

  Her fingers trembled as she saw the same photograph enlarged on her page. The comments that were left under it ranged from disgusting, lewd responses to outraged ones. Her face burned with humiliation. No one was meant to see this photograph. She had only posed for Jackson. The photograph had been posted only a few hours ago. Someone had known her password and accessed her account, posting as if he or she were her. That same person had changed her profile from ‘private’ so only friends could see what she wrote, to ‘public’ so anyone could see it. Her naked body and Facebook wall were on display to everyone who had access to the Internet.

  Worse than the revealing picture were the horrible messages she had supposedly written on friend’s walls and status updates she had written about herself.

  ‘Feeling so randy just bought myself this bad boy. Can’t wait for Jackson to use it on me.’ Under it was a picture of a huge vibrator.

  ‘Anyone want a threesome with me and Jackson? We don’t care what sex you are.’

  Her mouth fell open at the crude messages. She had also accused her work colleagues at the boutique of stealing clothes and written vile comments about others, calling them names. A message on Zoe’s wall read, ‘Have you told your latest boyfriend about your genital warts?’ And another on Claire’s wall read, ‘Zoe says you’re a loser. I think she’s right. You’re a female Billy-No-Mates. Neither of us really like you.’ The thought that someone had not only hacked her account but also posted these awful comments made her feel sick. And, how had they got a copy of the photograph from her bedroom?

  With shaking hands she set about getting back into her account but it was impossible. She emailed Facebook to tell them she had been hacked and asked them to shut her account down. She hoped they did it soon. She emailed as many people as possible who were her friends on Facebook to tell them that none of the ghastly messages and photos had actually been posted by her and asked them to spread the word that she was not responsible for them.

  Her temple drummed, heralding an impending headache. She let out a moan of despair as she turned off the computer. She was sure not everyone would believe her claim she had been hacked. This had to be the work of the same person who had been calling her. There were only a few explanations as to how they got a copy of the photograph in the bedroom and one of them was by direct entry to her home. The thought chilled her. Tomorrow she would definitely call a locksmith and get the locks changed. She ought to have done it immediately after the note had been removed from her drawer. Jackson wasn’t on Facebook and was unlikely to find out about the posts unless someone told him. That was a bridge she would cross when she had to. She’d explain only if she had to. For now, she would
do what she could to keep her past from him. She would fight back.

  A small rustling and a light cough made her sit up sharply. The rushing of blood filled her ears as her heart began to pound. Someone was in the house. She didn’t know how to react. She should call the police. She picked up her mobile and then dropped it as a childish, high-pitched voice whispered, ‘Bye, bye, Mummy.’

  Stifling a scream, she sat bolt upright, her head turning this way and that. The voice had come from the baby monitor on the television stand. There was an intruder in Izzy’s room.

  Abigail sprinted faster than she had ever sprinted before, up the stairs and burst into the nursery. The room was completely empty and Izzy lay fast asleep, her toy rag-dog in one hand.

  25

  Geraldine Marsh rode her bike to the front gate of the Farmhouse and dismounted. She wiped her forehead. It had taken a lot out of her today. Once upon a time she could have ridden the hill without getting puffed, but nowadays she was lucky if she made it to the top without having to get off and push.

  It was a bright day and she spent a moment catching her ragged breath and looking over the reservoir. She never tired of the view although she probably would not be able to look at it from this height again for much longer. Once the house sold, she would spend her days back in the village. It was unlikely new owners would want to employ an old lady like her to clean.

  It had all been such a shame. Mr Matthews dying like that had shocked her to her core. Life was so fragile. She propped her bike against the wall as usual, and collected the post from the large wooden letter box. It was habit. She always collected the post for him when she cleaned. She’d drop it in the laundry room for him to pick up when he was ready. He didn’t get much post. Today, she didn’t know what else to do with the letters. Somebody would deal with them in time.

  It was not her usual cleaning day. She normally didn’t work on a Thursday and instead would go to the leisure centre in town and swim. She wasn’t a good swimmer but it was exercise and kept her joints moving. At her age it was important to stay moving and stretched. She might consider going to one of the Pilates classes she had heard about. They took place in the village hall every Tuesday evening. She’d have plenty of spare time once she stopped work for good at the Farmhouse.

  She let herself in the back entrance and dropped the post on a table in the laundry room before ambling into the kitchen. The detective had wanted Paul’s laptop and Geraldine had decided to come and search for it. She started in the kitchen but she already knew it wasn’t in any obvious locations. She thought Mr Matthews might have taken it to his bedroom, put it under his bed and it had been pushed further under by her vacuum cleaner. That was the only thing she could think of: after all, she had cleaned the house meticulously as she always did, and not uncovered it.

  She had booked a ticket that morning to see Chicago, just as she had said she would. She would go and see the show in London and maybe even have a glass of wine during the interval and raise it to Mr Matthews. She was looking forward to going to London. It would be an adventure.

  The house seemed very empty. Geraldine had never really liked the place. It always seemed full of unhappiness. It was dreadfully gloomy, the rooms left as they had always been. Mr Matthews had so much wealth yet he had never made any house improvements. If it had been her house she would have thrown out everything in the children’s bedrooms and painted them bright colours, put in new furniture and erased the memories of the past. It was almost as if Mr Matthews wanted to be reminded of them. As if he was punishing himself. She reached his bedroom and got down on her knees, wriggling her body as far as she could under the bed. There was nothing there. She backed out and decided she’d try the other rooms just in case he had gone in one of them and left the laptop there.

  It was as she came out of the bedroom she heard a sneeze that appeared to come from upstairs. She froze. There was somebody in the room on the third floor. She might be old but her hearing was sharp. She would tiptoe back downstairs and phone the police. It might be burglars. Mr Matthews did not have many valuables but intruders wouldn’t know that. They’d see a huge house and believe there was something worth taking.

  Geraldine Marsh scurried along the landing and reached the top of the stairs when she felt rather than heard the person behind her. She turned and caught a glimpse of a face before she felt two hands push roughly on her shoulders, and she tumbled backwards, down and down, the face before her fading as she fell, tumbling over and over until her head smacked against the tiles and she saw no more.

  26

  Ross arranged to meet Robyn at his offices on her way to headquarters. He threw the door open with a trumpeting noise.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, sliding an old Toshiba laptop onto her old desk. ‘Thought it better to give it to you here than at the station.’

  ‘Really? Is it because you miss me, Ross? That’s why you asked me to meet you here?’

  ‘You sussed me. Actually, I didn’t want to go to the station. Makes me have these urges to return to the force. I miss the cut and thrust but don’t tell Jeanette. She doesn’t like me talking that way. It’s a quieter life for me these days, like it or not.’

  Before she could thank him he began a grumbling tirade, ‘What a place! The glossy brochure hides a multitude of sins. It’s certainly a big house but it needs lots of work doing to it. I don’t think Paul Matthews was one for DIY or employing anyone to fix things. The agent kept telling us to look at the potential of the place. By “potential” I think he really meant the cost of knocking it all down and starting again. The conservatory leaked, for one. It was pouring down and there were several buckets catching drips. They were right old trip hazards but not as lethal as the floor in the entrance. Slide over on that and you’d crack your skull wide open. I’m surprised Paul Matthews didn’t die that way, never mind falling over in the woods. The agent said the tiles had all been exported from Italy and were made of expensive marble. What a stupid covering for a floor. They were slippery, hard and cold. Someone should have put some carpet on top of them,’ he continued. Ross hated shoddy workmanship or neglect of homes. He was as proud of his house’s exterior and workmanship as Jeanette was the interior.

  ‘Several of the original fireplaces had been boarded up, and the bathrooms were tired and dated. Jeanette has a thing about clean, smart shiny taps. Those were so corroded you’d never get them clean again.

  ‘And it was eerie. The reception rooms are like the house equivalent of the Mary Celeste. The rooms are filled with enormous settees and huge puffy cushions set out so they face each other. Anyone sitting there would be staring at the person opposite. Bit like being in a doctors’ waiting room. There’s a piano in one room with music set up on a stand like someone was about to play it and then, poof, they vanished. In the dining room there are candelabras set up on a long table and even china side plates laid out! When did you last see a house with candelabras?

  ‘Upstairs was the worst. I was nearly out of breath by the time I reached the top of the first set of stairs. It was like climbing Mount Everest. It had one of those galleried landings that overlooks the entrance hall. Could be very impressive and his bedroom, or “the master suite” as the bloke in the shiny suit called it, was okay. It was large with an en-suite bathroom but the other bedrooms off the landing had been left as if the kids were still there. One was in dark gloomy colours with a couple of posters of bands on the wall and the other was obviously a girl’s room. Must have been Natasha’s. She left behind books and a few bits and pieces – old games, a radio, some CDs, that sort of thing. There was another room upstairs. The agent said it could be used as a bedroom but it was locked and he couldn’t open it. He’s had to tell head office so they can contact the cleaner and get it open. So, all in all, a depressing place. It needs a family who’ll spend some money on it and give it a new lease of life. Bit secluded for most folk, though. Who wants to live on a windy hill in the middle of nowhere with woods all around them? Th
e Munster family, maybe?’

  ‘You’ve not put in an offer on it, then?’

  Ross barked a loud laugh. ‘Not a chance. Jeanette couldn’t wait to get out of the place. She said it had bad vibes. I think she’s been reading too many horror stories.’

  ‘So tell me, how did you get your hands on this laptop? I hope you haven’t been breaking any laws.’

  The corners of Ross’s mouth twitched. ‘I am zee greatest detective,’ he said in a phony French accent.

  ‘You certainly surprised me. And I know how good you are. Come on, stop crowing about it with that smug look on your face and tell me what you did. I know you didn’t steal it because you are one of the straightest guys I know. You do everything – well, almost everything – by the book. Can’t see you shoving it up your Old Guys Rule T-shirt as you walked around the house.’

  ‘You know me too well. Actually, it was easy. On our way around the place, I noticed a leaflet on the mantelpiece in the snug. I can tell you’re annoyed you didn’t spot it when you were there.’

  It was true. Robyn prided herself on her observational skills. ‘Get on with it,’ she replied.

  ‘It was a leaflet for Andy’s computer repair shop in Rugeley. I put two and two together and after we left the house, we headed into the town. Andy’s was one of those hard-to-find places, a shop no bigger than my garage, stuffed round the back of a small business park. Took ages to locate it. Jeanette was about ready to give up when we finally stumbled across it. The place was like a waste-recycling unit, piled high with old computers, gadgets and stuff I couldn’t recognise. Andy’s one of those computer geeky sorts you see in sitcoms – glasses, little goatee beard thing on his chin, and an expression of perpetual confusion, as if he isn’t sure he’s in the real world or a virtual one. I asked if the laptop for Mr Matthews was ready for collection. “It’s been ready for a while, Mr Matthews. I got rid of the virus. It’s as good as new. I defragged it for you too.” The poor guy had no idea who I was. He’s obviously better with machines than people. He’d make a terrible witness at a robbery. Can you imagine it? “Describe the thief, Andy?” “Well, uhm, he had an HP fifteen inch, Intel Pentium four gigabyte, one terabyte, with a Pentium n3710 quad-core processor and one point six gigahertz processor speed, under his arm.”’