The Missing Girls

by Carol Wyer

  She had almost reached the toilets when she bumped into Mr Chambers. Elliot Chambers was the newest teacher to join Delia Marsh School, having arrived this academic year from university. Every girl in her class, including Amélie, was in love with him. He was in his early twenties, with dark, mournful eyes; clean-shaven and debonair, with a curling thatch of hair, he had a look of Harry Styles from One Direction. Mr Chambers taught English and drama and had already made a big impact on his pupils, being enthusiastic, cooler than the other teachers, and interested in those he taught.

  ‘Hi, Florence. You okay? Shouldn’t you be in lessons?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Art.’ She wasn’t sure if she could blag it with Mr Chambers. He knew all about acting. ‘Just going to the toilet.’ She couldn’t tell him any more.

  ‘Sure. Don’t let me hold you up. You’ll be wanting to get back quickly. Art’s very much your subject, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stared ahead then down at her feet, unsure of where to look. Her heart thudded against her ribcage. She didn’t want to be late for Hunter.

  ‘Miss Cousins showed me around the art studio, and there were several of your paintings on the wall.’ He smiled at her. If she wasn’t so keen to speak to Hunter, she’d have enjoyed chatting to him. Not many people, let alone good-looking men, praised her.

  ‘Well, can’t put it off. I have marking to do,’ he said, moving away and leaving her with a wide smile that almost made her knees go weak. Florence hurried to the toilets, locked herself in a cubicle and dropped onto the seat.

  She brushed her hair back from her shoulders, took a deep breath and opened the Fox or Dog app. Hunter’s photo was up, showing he was online. Florence typed.

  Kitten: Hi Hunter.

  Hunter: Hey Kitten! You made it.

  Kitten: I managed to get a few minutes off. Hope I’m not needed back in the office.

  Hunter: What do you do?

  Florence had anticipated this question.

  Kitten: Secretary for a small business.

  It was best to keep it vague. She didn’t want him to try and track her down. She wasn’t even sure how far she wanted the relationship to go. For now, she was happy to have an online relationship with someone who wouldn’t see the real Florence, the podgy teenager who wasn’t very good at academic work, wasn’t great at sports and spent most of her free time daydreaming or reading.

  Hunter: I guess you have to spend hours at a computer.

  Kitten: Yeah. It’s okay. I sometimes get sent abroad to conferences. Last year, I was sent to a meeting in Barcelona and got booked into a five-star hotel.

  Florence wondered if that sounded grown up or just like she was bragging.

  Kitten: That sort of thing doesn’t happen very often though. Most of the time, I’m stuck in the office.

  That sounded better. The stale smell of the toilets was beginning to get to her. She ought to have rushed to the park instead and sat on a bench.

  Hunter: Wow. Barcelona. Lucky you. No such fun for me. I’m a computer programmer. It sounds impressive, but I spend too much time in a room with complete geeks. One of the blokes is a right weirdo.

  Florence giggled and sent a laughing emoji.

  Hunter: You like Star Wars films?

  Kitten: They’re okay.

  Hunter: Please don’t tell me you’re into chick flicks.

  Florence shifted on the toilet seat. Her bum was getting numb. She liked romantic comedies yet she’d sound too girlie if she admitted it. Luckily, with her parents fully occupied with the stables most of the day, she had ample opportunity to watch anything she fancied. Her mum trusted her to ‘be sensible’. Her parents both treated her the same as the stable girls, who were all seventeen or older.

  Kitten: I love horror. The Final Destination films were great.

  Hunter: They were ace. Pretty gory in parts. Loved the Saw series. You watched those?

  Florence hadn’t, but she had an idea of what they were about.

  Kitten: They were brilliant. I jumped a few times during them.

  Hunter: So, you don’t mind being scared.

  Kitten: Not much scares me. Besides, they’re only films. It’s all about acting and make-up. I quite like the thrill though. Sometimes it’s good to be scared.

  Florence thought she sounded quite cool. Hunter seemed to think so too and sent a thumbs-up emoji.

  Hunter: I like strong women. Not scared of spiders then?

  Kitten: No.

  This was a complete lie. Florence detested the creatures, but she wasn’t going to confess that to Hunter. The conversation batted backwards and forwards, and too soon for Florence, was at an end.

  Hunter: Fancy chatting again?

  Florence breathed a sigh of relief. He liked her. The corners of her mouth twitched.

  Hunter: I’ll catch you again soon. I’m not going to be about until Thursday evening though. I’ve got a work project to complete for a client.

  Florence waited a minute so as not to appear too keen, then remembered she was supposed to be going to the cinema after school on Thursday. She ought to be back by eight or eight thirty. She’d make sure of it.

  Kitten: Okay. Maybe talk to you then.

  Outside the cubicle she heard the sound of voices. The door to the toilets opened with a squeak. She kept silent.

  Hunter: I’ll look forward to it.

  She signed out and stared at her phone for a moment. She no longer felt like a thirteen-year-old, or a plain Jane. Florence Hallows had a boyfriend.

  Twenty

  DCI Neil Forge of the Derbyshire Police beckoned Robyn into his office. He bore the look of a man who’d seen enough horrors to last a lifetime – thick lines etched into his forehead and, between his eyebrows, deep furrows that had intensified over the years. At six foot seven, he filled the chair and the room. ‘Have a seat, DI Carter. I’ll cut to the chase. The technicians have examined Amber Dalton’s laptop. We were hopeful of extracting something useful from her computer – after all, teenagers today seem to bare their souls online. Amber, however, is an exception, and uses her laptop solely for schoolwork.’ He bent over a pile of papers and extracted several sheets, passing them to Robyn. Amber had spent considerable time searching for information on First World War poetry, economics and various authors, including Shakespeare and Milton.

  He spoke again. ‘There’s nothing there to raise any alarm bells. It’s the sort of browsing history you’d expect from a diligent student. The technicians also looked for deleted browsing history, cookies or hidden files, but again came up with nothing. She’s only had the laptop since Christmas – it was a present from her parents. Essays, some notes, and that’s pretty much it.

  ‘We gained access to her social media accounts which she usually accesses via her mobile. She hasn’t posted any pictures on Instagram since New Year’s Eve, when she put up a photo of some fireworks and wished everyone a “mega 2017”. Again, on her Facebook page she hasn’t posted anything since the day her parents left for Portugal on the second of January. She appears to have got fed up with using it. Her last message was this one.’ He passed the sheet to Robyn who read:

  Fed up with Facebook. Too much hypocrisy here. Going to give it up for a while. Maybe for ever. I’ll leave it to those who want to whinge and be critical.

  Robyn felt the hairs rise on the nape of her neck. The language and tone was very similar to that in the message Carrie supposedly posted on her Facebook wall. The coincidence was too great to ignore. She hoped she wasn’t right, because if she was, then Amber Dalton’s life was at risk. She had to talk to her parents and she needed to locate Siobhan Connors, the other girl who’d received a direct message from Carrie’s phone.

  ‘Could you pull up her page on the screen for me?’ Robyn asked.

  ‘Sure, hang on a moment.’ Amber Dalton’s profile page appeared on the screen. Amber in black and white, large eyes focused on a spot in the distance, arms tucked around her long legs, sitting on a brick wall in front of a tall blo
ck of 1960s flats. The wall had been decorated with graffiti: ‘Life Sucks’. Amber, with a sombre expression and wearing a lace top with billowing sleeves, tight jeans and Ugg boots, could have been advertising a fashion brand. She exuded sadness and beauty, as if she found life too much to endure.

  ‘Did Amber message anyone on Facebook privately?’

  ‘No activity at all.’

  Robyn rubbed her sore hip absent-mindedly. Carrie had sent private messages to Siobhan Connors and Amber, saying she hoped to meet them soon. Amber, however, hadn’t sent anything on Facebook or by text.

  ‘So none of her friends have tried to contact her?’ she said.

  ‘You can see from the comments on her Facebook wall that several have asked what was up with her.’

  He scrolled down the page. ‘Quite a few tell her to take some time out, or leave hearts on her page, and that they’re “here for you if you want to talk”. This one asks, “What’s up, you mardy cow? Having another downer? Call me.” It’s from one of her friends from Sandwell, Samantha Dancer. Although Sandwell’s a boarding school, Amber’s a day pupil there. That means she stays until nine each day. She has a room in the same boarding house as Samantha, who’s a full-time boarder, so they see quite a lot of each other. We spoke to Samantha who told us it was quite normal for all of them to get a bit depressed from time to time. Amber’s no different to any of them, although, according to one or two of them, it isn’t like her to throw a complete wobbly. Samantha put it down to the pressure of schoolwork. Amber’s desperate to get into Oxford or Cambridge and has been working flat out. Samantha suspects her parents have been putting pressure on her and wondered if it had all got too much for Amber so she’d run away. She left voicemail messages on Amber’s phone but didn’t get a reply. At the time, she was busy herself with studying, so she assumed Amber was really knuckling down to work. It was only once term began again that she realised Amber was missing.

  ‘We interviewed all Amber’s friends at Sandwell, not that she has many. In recent months she’s chosen studies over friendships. They corroborated what we surmised – Amber Dalton is a bright, attractive girl who put studies first.’

  ‘Have you had any leads from the public since the television appeal?’

  ‘The usual. People phoning in saying they’ve spotted her all over the country – you know how it is. It uses up so many resources trying to establish how many of these leads are plausible.’

  ‘Nothing from any of the neighbours?’

  ‘They didn’t even know she was at home. It’s an estate of six houses, all spread out. Each has its own driveway and gates. They are all “private” people.’ He sniffed in disapproval.

  ‘Relatives?’

  ‘There’s only a grandmother in Wales. No uncles, aunts. Amber isn’t with her grandmother. If she has run away, no one can work out why, other than pressure of schoolwork. Her parents say they often tell her to take time off studying. They maintain she isn’t struggling with her studies at all, that she’s a perfect daughter – no arguments or fallouts – and a happy, content teenager.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘She went out with a lad in the same year as her for a while, but she dumped him in April last year, so she could focus on her GCSEs.’

  ‘Have you a name for him?’

  ‘Justin Bolt.’

  Robyn noted it down along with the boy’s address. DCI Forge sat back. ‘I’m holding out little hope of her coming back unharmed. It’s been two weeks. Her parents are convinced she’s been abducted. It’s most unlikely she would have run away. We’ve had units out all over the area but there’s no sign of her.’

  ‘And what about traces on her mobile?’

  ‘It was last used on the seventh – that was the day before her parents returned. A transmitter at Derby picked up the phone’s signal. It’s been switched off since then and we’ve been unable to get a trace on it.’

  Once again, a mobile phone had been used in the Derby area. Is that where the killer lived, or had Amber used her phone that day? Robyn made a mental note. Any information at this stage was relevant.

  ‘I know it’s irregular, but do you think I could chat to her parents?’ she asked.

  ‘It is irregular, but they’d do anything to help. They’re both what you’d call upright citizens. He’s an economist and she’s involved with various charities. It’s awful to see them going through this. They’re devoted to Amber. They have this blinkered faith in our ability to find her. I wish we could give them some good news.’

  A sour taste rose in Robyn’s throat. The message posted on Amber’s Facebook wall had confirmed her fears and there was little doubt in her mind Amber and Carrie’s disappearances were connected. With no word from Amber and her phone switched off, Robyn’s fear was that the girl might no longer be alive. With that thought, she phoned the office and asked Anna to get in contact with Siobhan Connors.

  Twenty-One

  Robyn drove back towards Uttoxeter. The Daltons lived en route in the village of Tutbury, best known for its ruined medieval castle. As she passed the fortifications, she thought carefully about what to say to them. She didn’t want to worry them unduly, but she had to work fast and find out what she could if she were to stand any chance of finding Amber alive.

  Bianca Dalton, a diminutive woman with clear, porcelain skin and deep ebony eyes, was holding up better than her husband was. Mr Dalton, tall and stooped with sparse, feather-like white hair and round metal-framed glasses that gave him the appearance of a professor, looked haunted. His eyes widened at the sight of Robyn. ‘Is she…?’

  ‘No, Charles. She’s not been found yet. This is DI Carter of Staffordshire Police. She has some questions about one of Amber’s friends. She telephoned earlier. I said she could come around.’ Mrs Dalton’s accent was charming, with a singsong lilt.

  ‘Are you sure this is okay? I don’t want to intrude.’

  ‘Of course it is okay. We want to help if we can. It’s good to focus on other matters. Since we landed back home, we haven’t dared to go out in case the house phone rings and it’s Amber, or in case she returns and we’re not here to welcome her back.’

  Mrs Dalton guided her husband by the elbow to a large armchair where he sat, dazed. She turned to Robyn. ‘Charles blames himself. We should have insisted she came with us to Portugal, but no, we let her stay here on her own. Amber said she had coursework to do and didn’t want to get behind. How many girls that age would turn down sunshine by a pool to study? Would you like some tea, Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t want to impose.’

  ‘Not an imposition at all. I’d just brewed a pot before you arrived.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure. White, no sugar, please.’

  ‘It makes me feel useful.’ The cup trembled on the saucer, a repetitive chinking. Mrs Dalton replaced it on the table. ‘Who am I kidding? I don’t feel useful. I’m just waiting, biding my time, praying, hoping. I can’t bear this not knowing.’

  ‘Now now, Bianca,’ said her husband, coming out of his reverie. ‘You mustn’t give up. We have to stay strong. For when Amber comes home.’ His voice trailed to a whimper.

  Robyn couldn’t upset him. He was at breaking point. Amber had been reported missing eleven days earlier, and no one was any the wiser as to her whereabouts. Robyn felt uncomfortable wheedling information from them when they were so obviously distressed. She ought to have arranged to meet the liaison officer assigned to the case at the house. ‘Look, I’ll chat to the officer in charge of Amber’s disappearance again. I can’t pester you at this time.’

  ‘Has Amber’s friend gone missing too?’ Bianca Dalton stared at Robyn, suddenly grasping the situation. ‘No, don’t answer that. I want to carry on believing Amber is safe and will come home. I don’t want to know what’s happened to this other girl. Ask your questions and we’ll help if we can.’

  ‘Is the name Carrie Miller familiar to you?’

  Bianca shrugged and looked to her husb
and, his brow wrinkled in thought. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard Amber mention her. Is she one of Amber’s friends from Sandwell?’

  Robyn shook her head. ‘No. We’re unsure of how they know each other. It might only be through social media.’

  Charles shook his head again. ‘Amber’s never mentioned her, and she certainly hasn’t visited the house. Amber hasn’t invited anyone round for a long time. She decided her studies were to take priority. The school has high hopes for her.’

  Robyn followed his eyes to a framed photograph of his daughter, in which she could almost have been mistaken for a model, with pale skin like her mother’s, large eyes framed with long eyelashes, a perfectly straight nose and full lips; she was a young version of Sophie Marceau.

  ‘When did you first realise Amber had disappeared?’

  ‘It wasn’t until we returned from holiday, on the eighth of January. That was twelve days ago,’ she said, her chest rising. She regained control and continued. ‘She’d been texting us every day while we were away, so we believed everything was fine. I reminded her to put the rubbish bins out and she said she had. When we got back home, the house was locked, food I’d left her was still in the fridge, and the bins hadn’t been emptied. We called the police immediately. Inspector Forge believes she left home shortly after we caught our plane.’ Bianca inhaled deeply. ‘We checked with all her friends and with my mother. Amber wasn’t with any of them. The police did a door-to-door enquiry and no one had seen her. We waited to hear from her again, but there were no more texts and no phone calls. The last we heard from her was a text she sent the day before we got home, telling us to have fun on our last day.’ Bianca’s eyes filled.

  ‘Inspector Forge advised us to make an appeal on television which we did two days ago, on Saturday night. So far, we haven’t heard anything. The police say they’re following up leads. It’s as if she’s vanished from the face of the earth. I wish to goodness I’d insisted she’d come with us. She could have done her coursework at the villa. She told me not to fuss when I asked if she’d be okay alone.’