by Angela Hart
I looked through our answerphone log to see if it had recorded the number we’d received ‘Claudia’s’ message from. It had, but the number was withheld. I quickly called Rosie back and asked if she could tell me if their home number had any restriction on it. She said it didn’t, and it would not appear as a withheld number. ‘OK, sorry to trouble you, Rosie.’
‘No problem. I hope she’s OK.’
We replayed the answerphone message. On second hearing, and despite knowing what we did now, it didn’t sound fake, even though we knew it had to be. Another one of Melissa’s friends must have left this message, yet the voice sounded entirely plausible as that of Rosie’s mother, or any mother. I couldn’t believe this had happened, or that Melissa had pulled off such a cunning plan.
We waited until ten before going through the familiar routine of phoning the out-of-hours number at Social Services, telling the duty social worker what had happened and being advised to call the police. The officer who took my call listened patiently to all the information I gave and reassured me they’d do their best to find ‘our little runaway’ and get her back to us as quickly as possible. He sounded pleasant enough to begin with, though he didn’t seem unduly concerned, which irritated me. Then he said jovially, ‘Leave it with us. Now you go and have yourself a good evening!’ I didn’t think that was a very fitting thing to say in the circumstances, and it made me wonder if the officer was on autopilot, or was maybe tired out at the end of a long shift. It seemed to me that he’d either not listened properly or had somehow failed to grasp the urgency of the situation: our evening was already ruined, and how could we possibly enjoy the rest of it while Melissa was out in the dark, goodness knows where? I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t let this go. This was a missing child we were talking about, not lost property. I hated to think this officer might treat other anxious carers or parents in this way.
‘Actually, having a good evening is the least of my worries,’ I said curtly. ‘I can’t think of anything but getting Melissa back to us. I hope you find her quickly. I hope she’s safe.’
‘We’ll do our best, madam. These girls are a caution, aren’t they? Foster kids, eh!’
I took a deep breath and told myself to remain calm and be polite.
‘This girl – Melissa – is twelve years old,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s pitch black outside and freezing cold. I’m extremely worried for her safety. She’s been missing for more than an hour and I have no idea who she’s with, or where she is.’
‘I do understand, madam. Rest assured we’ll do our level best to retrieve her and reunite you with her.’ I told him she’d dyed her hair a darker cherry red than her natural auburn and he said something about alerting patrols. Then he said very formally, ‘I bid you goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ I said, through gritted teeth.
Jonathan and I sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Our nerves were shredded, thinking about the danger Melissa could be in, and we were also feeling wounded and demoralised by her deceitful behaviour.
‘What are we doing this for?’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s madness. We’re going to end up in an early grave.’
I felt a pang of guilt. It had been my idea to foster in the first place, and I’d stuck to my guns even after we’d both had doubts and wobbles at various times over the previous few years. It was not Jonathan’s style to grumble and be pessimistic like this, and I knew he must have been feeling extremely stressed and worried.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be like this.’
Jonathan stood up, put his cup in the sink and walked to the back of my chair. Then he wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on top of my shoulder as he did so. I couldn’t do this without you, I thought. I took hold of his hands and looked down at them. I saw that his fingernails were bitten to the quick and I felt another stab of guilt.
‘Don’t say sorry,’ he said. ‘We both thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into. And in any case, it’s Melissa we need to be worrying about, not ourselves. I was just letting off steam, that’s all.’
The phone rang as we were discussing whether it was worth us trying to get some sleep. It was Lynne, telling me she’d seen Melissa walking past her house.
‘I was closing the bedroom curtains when I happened to look out. She was on her own, but she was heading in the opposite direction to your house.’ Lynne explained that she didn’t want to call to her out of the window or go after her in case she ran, and she thought it was best to phone me straight away. ‘I hope I’ve done the right thing, only from when she was with us I know chasing after her wouldn’t have worked.’
I thanked Lynne and very quickly filled her in on what had happened that evening. It was now ten past eleven and I called the police back immediately and told them about the sighting.
‘We have a patrol not far away. We’ll take a look.’
‘Thank you.’
There was a knock on our door about twenty minutes later.
‘Thank God!’ I said. Jonathan and I both sprang to our feet and went to answer the door together. A solitary police officer was standing there.
‘Good evening, sir, good evening, madam. I’m PC Jones. I’ve come to take some details about your missing person. For example, do you have a photograph of the said person?’
He was a fresh-faced officer and by the officious way he spoke I imagined he was straight out of training school.
‘Please come in. Yes. We do have a photograph of Melissa. I’ll go and get it. We’ve given a copy to the police before.’
‘I understand. Thank you very much.’
Jonathan took PC Jones into the kitchen while I fetched the photograph. He explained that he’d had a call on his radio while he was out doing routine patrols, and that it was quicker to come to our house than to return to the station to ‘ID the missing person’.
He studied the photograph very seriously.
‘Does she try to conceal her appearance or will she look like this, do you suppose?’
We said we’d never known Melissa to attempt to disguise herself but for the second time that evening I pointed out that she’d since dyed her hair a deeper shade of red: ‘Cherry red, to be precise.’ I added that she might, possibly, use the name Maz instead of her real name.
‘Thank you for your time. Please be assured we’ll do our best to find her.’
By the time we’d said goodbye to PC Jones it was nearly midnight and we decided we’d better try to get some rest.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Jonathan said as we got into bed. ‘If we didn’t have the boys here we could go out looking for her. She was on foot when Lynne spotted her. She can’t be far away. Shall I just go out looking?’
‘No, not now the police are on the case. We should leave it to them. That’s what Wilf would say.’
‘Perhaps I should have jumped straight in the car instead of waiting to get hold of the police?’
I told Jonathan not to think like that. ‘She could have got into a car and she could be anywhere by now.’
Jonathan harrumphed and turned over, but we both found it impossible to sleep.
‘I’m going out to look for her,’ he said eventually, getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of trousers.
‘What? You can’t do that.’
‘Look, I won’t put myself in any danger, I promise. But the least I can do is go and look for her. I can drive around town and feel like I’m doing something. It seems so unnatural to do nothing. How can we just go to sleep?’
I could see that he was adamant about this and I trusted him implicitly to be cautious and remember all the safeguarding rules we’d been taught.
‘If you see her, what will you do?’
‘I’ll pick her up, of course, if she’ll let me. But I’ll make her sit in the back of the car. I won’t be long. Don’t worry. I’m just going to go around the town, back past Lynne’s house, and have a look along the parade of shops where the takeaways are.’
PC Jones h
ad given us a contact number and I reminded Jonathan of this. I really didn’t want him to go out in the dark, driving around the town, but I wasn’t going to stop him. I understood how he felt, and he reassured me once more that he would take care of himself.
I listened to the sound of the car firing into life and then the growl of the engine turning into a distant muffled hum. I watched the hands on my bedside clock ticking and ticking and ticking. My eyelids felt so heavy it was as if they were made of metal.
I must have been so exhausted I dropped off for a few minutes, but suddenly I snapped my eyes open. Somebody was coming into the house.
‘It’s her!’ I said, sitting up and reaching over to Jonathan’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there, of course. I switched on my bedside light and realised it was my husband coming back into the house, not Melissa. I heard him cough as he hung his keys in the box on the wall by the door. I heard him putting his shoes in the cupboard in the hallway. And I heard the familiar sound of his footsteps on the stair carpet.
I was grateful Jonathan was home safe and sound, but at the same time I wished I was hearing the sound of Melissa bounding up the stairs instead, whistling to herself or even grumbling about something or other. Any sound from her would have been welcome. Where was she?
I looked at the clock and saw it was just before one o’clock. As he’d promised, Jonathan had not been long.
‘Didn’t see a soul,’ he said. ‘Save for a couple of foxes lurking around the back entrance to the park.’
I told him I’d fallen asleep. ‘I’m not surprised. You must be totally shattered. I know I am.’
The next time I woke it was five in the morning. Jonathan was asleep and I tiptoed up to Melissa’s room and tapped gently on her door before pushing it open. I switched on the light and walked over to the empty bed, where I picked two long red hairs off the pillow. I dropped them over the waste paper basket and watched them float downwards and settle on top of an old tissue and some screwed-up paper. I knew Melissa wasn’t there before I looked, but I couldn’t stop myself from checking.
I sat on the end of her bed and had a few moments to myself. I thought about how I’d seen so many news reports about missing children. I’d read interviews with parents who feared their child was dead yet never gave up hope. Tragically, I’d heard stories about children who were found dead, and how the parents coped, or didn’t, as was usually the case. One story I saw on our local news had always stayed with me. A bereaved mother was interviewed in her young daughter’s bedroom, surrounded by disco-dancing trophies, posters of pop stars and a shelf full of birthday cards. One had a big, sparkly badge attached to it, declaring brightly: ‘This princess is seven today!’ I had sat transfixed – frozen with horror – as I learned that the girl had been killed in a hit-and-run accident. It had taken years for the driver to face trial and finally be jailed. The mother explained that she had not been able to bring herself to move a single item from the room, even though her daughter would now be almost ten years old. The bedroom had become a shrine, and the heartbroken mother said it would always stay that way.
I looked around at the clutter of Melissa’s life – the tracksuits discarded on the back of her chair and the floor, a plastic hairbrush that needed a good clean, the holdall she arrived with, thrown in the corner, her small collection of schoolbooks and the new slippers I’d bought her. Her feet were tiny. Size three. The slippers were fluffy with a rabbit’s face and floppy ears on either side. She’s a young child, I thought. She should be here. She should not be out like this. Why is she missing? I pushed away dark thoughts that filled my head, trying to stop myself from imagining what danger she was in, and worrying about whether she’d come back unharmed, or even come back at all.
At ten to seven that morning we received a call. I was lying wide awake in bed and I grabbed the phone from my bedside table.
‘Is Melissa back with you?’
It was Lynne. I thought it was very early for her to be calling, even in the circumstances. I was immediately on my guard and felt a knot tighten in my stomach.
‘No. Have you heard something?’
Jonathan sat up. He looked a bit dazed, as if he’d been woken from a very deep sleep. He rubbed his eyes and mouthed, ‘Who is it?’ I mouthed back that it was Lynne and he furrowed his brow.
Lynne sounded apologetic and said it was probably nothing, and she was sorry for calling, but she’d heard something from her husband, Nick.
‘I’m sorry, Angela. I was really hoping you were going to tell me Melissa was safe and sound, back with you. I shouldn’t have called. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . I was worried and I should have thought this through but I just had to pick up the phone . . .’
I braced myself. ‘What is it, Lynne? What have you heard?’
There was an ominous pause. My heart was racing and now Jonathan was looking extremely worried, his eyes searching my face for answers.
‘There’s been an accident, on the bypass. Kids, they’re saying. In the early hours. I’m sorry, it gave me such a jolt when Nick told me. I just wanted to know Melissa was safe. I was sure she’d be back with you. I was sure she’d get picked up after I spotted her last night. Nick told me I was working myself up about nothing and that I should give you a call to put my mind at rest. I’m sorry. Now I’ve just worried you too.’
Lynne’s husband was a mechanic. The garage he worked for did roadside and motorway recoveries. I knew his job involved removing vehicles that had been involved in accidents and were causing an obstruction.
After quickly telling Jonathan what Lynne had told me I asked her if anyone had been injured. There was another pause.
‘I don’t know any details. Nick wasn’t working this morning, but he’s heard it was a bad smash. He heard a teenager died at the scene and the air ambulance was called out.’
I quickly relayed this to Jonathan, then said, ‘Teenager? She’s not a teenager.’
I knew I was clutching at straws, but Lynne was happy for me to do so.
‘Exactly. And honestly, Angela, I’m sure you would have heard if Melissa was involved in any way at all. I’m really sorry. I feel awful now. I bet she’s just out with her friends. She’s probably asleep in some friend’s house, totally fine, and she’ll turn up soon as if nothing at all has happened, asking what she can have for breakfast.’
‘Lynne, I’m going to call the police. If I hear anything I’ll let you know. Please do the same. And don’t worry about me. I know you didn’t mean to alarm me. Oh, hang on a minute. Jonathan is asking what time it happened, the accident I mean.’
‘Around five.’
‘OK. Thanks. I’ll speak to you later.’
My heart was positively thumping by the time I hung up. It had been five o’clock when I got up and went to Melissa’s bedroom. Had I had a sixth sense that something terrible had happened? Is that why my mind had gone back to the tragic stories I’d heard about missing children, and kids who never came home?
Jonathan immediately called the police but couldn’t get through. I called out-of-hours and the duty social worker knew nothing about there having been an accident.
‘That’s good,’ I said to Jonathan, trying to convince myself that if Melissa had been involved then the police or the hospital would have identified her as a child in care, and Social Services would have been alerted immediately.
We switched on the radio. The seven o’clock news would be on any minute. Meanwhile we tried the police again but still couldn’t get through.
‘Shall I call the hospital?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Jonathan said. ‘The news is starting. Let’s see if there’s any more detail.’
He turned the radio up.
The top story was about the accident. Two teenagers had died in the crash, which had happened when what was believed to be a stolen white Ford van carrying six teenagers lost control and hit a tree. No other vehicle was involved. Police were investigating whether the occupants of the car were
joyriders. Four teenagers were in a critical condition in the local hospital.
‘White Ford van,’ I repeated. I felt like I was in a bad dream.
‘But a stolen white Ford van? TJ owns a white Ford van.’
The phone rang shortly afterwards and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
‘Mrs Hart? I’ve got some news. It’s about Melissa. Is your husband with you?’
17
‘I’m looking forward to seeing my mates again’
It was PC Jones on the phone.
‘Yes, my husband is here.’ My throat had turned to sandpaper and my voice rasped as I scraped the words out.
‘That’s good,’ the officer said.
I held my breath as I waited to hear what PC Jones was going to say next. Jonathan was padding around the bedroom and he stopped in his tracks and came and stood close to me. He took hold of my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
‘We have located Melissa.’
‘Where is she?’
The words were sticking to my tongue like sand flies.
‘She’s here at the station. Would you or your husband be able to collect her?’
I exhaled deeply and felt the grip of my gritted teeth loosen.
‘Is she OK?’
‘Yes, she’s not in the best of moods and is short of sleep. She may have been drinking last night, or in the early hours. But she has not come to any harm.’
‘I can’t tell you how good that is to hear. I thought she might have been in an accident . . .’
‘No, Mrs Hart. She’s perfectly safe. She was picked up by a patrolling officer, in the town.’
I relayed the news to Jonathan, relief flooding from me. His hunched shoulders fell several inches as he looked up to the ceiling and whispered, ‘Thank God.’ I heard his neck crack; the tension was seeping from him too.
‘We heard about that accident on the bypass,’ I explained to PC Jones. ‘We were worried she’d been involved.’
‘I understand. I know it’s been all over the news. But I can assure you Melissa is fine. I’ve just seen her. I’m glad you’re both there. Can you come and pick her up now?’
