The Missing Girls

by Carol Wyer

  Robyn nodded. ‘I understand. I’m looking into the disappearance of another girl and wondered if you could tell me anything that might help.’

  ‘A girl’s disappeared?’

  ‘Siobhan Connors?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her. Lotty never mentioned her. Is she one of Lotty’s friends?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Did Charlotte have many friends?’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘No, she kept herself to herself. She was quite timid. Not outgoing at all. It’s been ten months. I still can’t believe it happened. Some days, I wake up feeling happy because I’ve forgotten that she’s gone, and then it hits me and I can’t think for the pain of it. She’s gone. She’ll never come back. I failed her. We all failed her.’

  ‘Can you tell me a little about her?’

  Cheryl winced as she settled back into her chair, struggling to find a comfortable position.

  Losing Charlotte had taken its toll on the woman. She looked older than her years, with deep creases in her forehead. She cleared her throat and spoke. ‘Lotty was my walking miracle. She was born with a life-threatening condition that meant she spent the first twenty months of her life in hospital.’ Tears sprang to Cheryl’s eyes and she dabbed at them with a tissue pulled from a sleeve. ‘One of her lungs was too small. It was touch and go as to whether she would live. She endured endless operations as a baby. Twenty-five, I think it was – twenty-five operations on that fragile, tiny body. There were complications and she had to have a tracheostomy. She lived with a tube in her throat, and another – a gastrostomy – in her stomach. That’s how she was fed for years. Without those tubes, Lotty would certainly have died.’ She gave a small sigh.

  ‘She was such a fighter, and eventually her lungs became strong enough for her to breathe without the tube. That was an incredible day. It was a sign she was going to get better and that we wouldn’t lose her after all those years of thinking she could be taken from us at any moment. She was still very weak and susceptible to illnesses, and although she missed a lot of schooling, she succeeded – she succeeded in surviving. I was so proud of my girl. When she was eight, the doctors removed the gastrostomy and she was able to lead a normal life at last, although the whole ordeal left her smaller, frailer and weaker than other girls her age. She kept surprising us though. My brave Lotty.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Sorry, I can’t go on.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink of water or anything?’

  Cheryl shook her head, wet tears on her cheeks glistened. ‘I’ll be okay in a minute.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘She was so full of joy and love. She’d fought for survival all her life, and then she gave up. Why? Why would she do that?’

  Robyn had no answers. One sunny afternoon in March, Charlotte had sat on her bed, placed a plastic bag over her head, tied a cord around it in a double knot, and suffocated herself. Mitz had read the autopsy report to her during the journey to Uttoxeter.

  ‘I have the note she left. The police officers that came took it away at first. I asked for it to be returned. It’s in the drawer.’ She indicated a table. Robyn rose and opened it. The note lay at the top. Written on floral paper in large looped handwriting was Charlotte’s last message. It read:

  I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t bear my life any more. I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of hatred. I hope Dad will be waiting for me when I get to the next life, and it’s easier than this one. I love you. I love Elliot. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be stronger.

  Robyn could almost feel the woman’s sorrow. ‘You obviously had no idea she felt this way.’

  ‘No, and I blame myself every waking hour of every day. I didn’t notice anything unusual. She was a bit withdrawn and spent a lot of time in her room online. I put it down to being a teenager. Elliot was the same at that age and he came out of it, so I figured that Lotty would come through this phase, just like him. We were exceptionally close until she hit fourteen and then she began to pull away from me. Girls that age are feeling their way into adulthood. Nowadays I ask myself over and over: if I’d not been so sick, would she have involved me more in her life? Was I somehow to blame?’

  ‘Was she close to Elliot?’

  ‘There’s almost an eight-year age difference between them. By the time she was able to come home, Elliot was ten. At first he wasn’t interested in having a baby sister, especially a sick baby sister, one who took up all our time. Tom and I were always at the hospital in the early days and Elliot’s life was incredibly disrupted, but he was a good kid. After Tom died, in 2006, Elliot adopted a greater role in looking out for her. It was like he needed to do something to block the upset of losing his father, so he gave Lotty all his attention. He’d feed her or play with her, take her to the park, read to her. I even found him half asleep in her room one night when she had a cold. He was curled up on a chair by her bed. I asked him what he was doing there and he replied he was making sure she didn’t die in the night.’ Her cheeks dimpled slightly at the poignant memory.

  ‘He was very fond of her. Even after he left home for university, he’d come home and visit us and sit with Lotty in her room, listening to music or chatting.’ Cheryl swallowed hard. ‘He had a week’s study leave just before his final examinations and he wanted to spend it at home. Lotty had been in her room all afternoon. She told me she had an art project to complete. Art was her favourite subject and she excelled in it. She wasn’t too good at other subjects. All those years missing school sort of caught up with her and she struggled. Not at art though. She was top of the class in that.’ She paused, looking ahead, lost in memories. ‘I left her alone. She didn’t like to be disturbed when she was drawing or painting. Elliot had been studying here in the lounge and nipped upstairs to tell her tea was almost ready. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the noise he made when he found her. It was like listening to a wild animal. I hobbled up the stairs, all the while thinking, hurry, hurry.’

  She blinked away the tears. ‘It was too late. The rest you know. She’d taken her own life, and to this day I don’t know why.’

  Robyn reached to touch the woman’s hand. Cheryl continued. ‘I don’t know if this girl you mentioned was a friend of Lotty’s, but I hope you find her. It’s a dreadful thing to lose a child.’

  ‘Does Elliot still live with you?’ Robyn asked, even though she knew the answer.

  Cheryl shook her head. ‘He moved into town. I think he found it a strain coming back here to live, what with Lotty gone – the memories of that day. You understand. After we buried her he returned to university. “Mum, I don’t know what else to do,” he said. “I have to go back. I have to carry on for us both.” He managed to continue with his studies in spite of the pain he was going through. He did well too. Got a good degree and a job offer immediately afterwards. Such a brave boy. I’m so proud of him. I had two brave kids.

  ‘I’d been struggling with my health before all of this, but I became very ill after Lotty passed away and now, as you can see, I have trouble walking and some days I can’t move for pain. The doctors have diagnosed fibromyalgia. I don’t know what’ll happen to me. I take each day as it comes. I can’t expect Elliot to become my carer. He visits once a month, sometimes more often, and he’s not far away if I need him.’

  ‘So he spent last summer here at The Oaks?’

  Cheryl’s face screwed up and she eyed Robyn suspiciously. ‘Yes. He returned in June last year. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Sometimes graduates work over summer, just to pay back student debt.’

  Cheryl frowned again. ‘No. He worked around the house and helped me with cleaning and cooking. He’s a good cook.’ She stopped talking and pointed above a table. ‘That’s Lotty.’

  The shelf held photographs of the Chambers family: of Cheryl and Tom with broad smiles on their faces next to two pigs staring through bars at the camera; of the whole family in wellington boots outside the grey house; of a young Elliot in shorts; of an older Elliot with his arm around his sister. Robyn lifted the frame containing
the picture of a shy girl in school uniform – a school photograph. The girl looked awkward, frail and so young. Robyn wished she could help Mrs Chambers and return her daughter to her. But she couldn’t, and now she might even be taking away another child from this woman who’d done nothing to deserve it. Robyn hoped she was wrong and that Elliot Chambers was not connected in any way to the case. It would break this woman’s heart all over again if he was.

  Fifty

  Robyn glanced around the office. Matt and David had been called out to an incident in Stafford and Anna was with the technicians, going through Amber’s laptop one more time. Mitz was working through the list of van hire companies to see if Elliot Chambers had hired one. The visit to Mrs Chambers had unsettled Robyn.

  There had been an inquest into Charlotte’s suicide. It appeared she had not been very popular at school, having failed to become part of any particular circle of friends. Her illness and time off school had left her struggling to forge relationships with girls who had known each other for years.

  Her mother testified that Charlotte didn’t own a smartphone or a computer – her own income wasn’t sufficient to pay for ‘luxury items’. The girl was indeed a loner, and hadn’t been a member of any social networks. Robyn was now driven to uncover further information on Elliot, yet torn between wanting the man to be guilty and hoping he wasn’t.

  There was nothing to indicate he was anything other than a young teacher who lived alone. He had no past convictions and had never been in trouble with the police. She set out her Post-it notes on a spare desk. She put Carrie, Amber and Siobhan’s names in a line, and under them the note bearing the name Stardust Nightclub, another with Facebook and a third with Uttoxeter railway station. Only Carrie and Siobhan had been to the nightclub, so that couldn’t be the link. She moved it to one side, leaving Uttoxeter railway station and Facebook.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a phone call from Amélie.

  ‘Hey. You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine but I’m worried about Florence.’

  Robyn resisted the urge to sigh. ‘I’m sure she’ll come around in time. She’s struggling with coming to terms with growing up. Give her the space she thinks she needs.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. She didn’t catch the school bus home as usual and she left the art lesson early. I tried calling her to see if she was okay, but she didn’t pick up. I figured she had a dentist appointment or something but I was chatting to Grace online and she said she spotted Florence walking down the road and dressed up like she was going to a rave. Grace almost didn’t recognise her. She must have sneaked out of art to get ready. What do you think?’

  Robyn sighed. ‘Which road?’

  ‘The main street.’

  Florence could have been headed to any of the coffee houses along that road, or any of the shops. Robyn had picked her up from that same road only a few days earlier. She shook her head. It didn’t sound ominous. ‘She’s possibly gone shopping or she’s meeting a lad and she wants to keep it under wraps. It’s Wednesday afternoon. Highly unlikely she’s going to a rave.’

  ‘I wondered if someone should tell Mrs Hallows. What if Florence is running away?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think Florence is running away. She’d have taken a bag with her if that were the case. If Florence is meeting a boy and her mum finds out thanks to you, she’s definitely not going to want to be friends with you. Friends keep secrets, don’t they?’

  There was silence as Amélie digested this information.

  ‘Her mum might even know Florence is in town.’

  ‘I suppose so. Thanks. I’ll let it drop. I don’t want to make things worse between us.’

  She hung up. Robyn wrestled with her conscience. Florence was beginning to behave in an increasingly concerning manner. Christine Hallows had always let her daughter have a freedom that many would disapprove of, and to date, Florence had exhibited nothing to worry about. What if Amélie’s suspicions were well-founded and Florence had started hanging about with older kids, a bad crowd into drugs? They came across many instances of drug taking among the young in their line of work. She ought to speak to Christine. The world was a dangerous place, and there were so many challenges for teenagers.

  She thought about ringing the woman, then reasoned Florence wouldn’t be too pleased to find out somebody had snitched on her and she might behave more secretively in the future. It was so tricky knowing how to handle teenagers. She was at risk of becoming frustrated by them, wishing they’d just sort it out. But Amélie had been through so much, and it was no surprise she was scared at the thought of losing her best friend.

  Her shoulders rose and dropped. She would keep out of this. She had more pressing matters to attend to. She stared again at the report on Charlotte’s death. She couldn’t deal with teenage angst, but she could help Siobhan Connors.

  Discovering the footage of Carrie at Derby Station had been useful. At least they could now establish she had been heading towards Crewe on the twenty-eighth of July. But had she returned to Derby soon afterwards, then been abducted? The messages she supposedly sent Jade had been sent from the Derby area. No, the messages had been sent by the perp. He or she had sent them from Derby. Could Elliot Chambers have sent messages from Derby when he lived and worked in Uttoxeter, some twenty miles away? Might he have sent them on his days off? There had to be an explanation. She’d ask Anna if it was possible to change the location on Facebook so it appeared as if messages were coming from the Derby area.

  Robyn put her head in her hands. She was going around and around in circles. She had to break free from this. Her gut was telling her to pursue the station angle. It was possible all three girls had been to Uttoxeter railway station and it was, for the moment, all she had to go on. She’d return to Uttoxeter and see if she could get any further inklings or leads.

  Fifty-One

  Florence felt horribly sick and dizzy. She could make no sense of what had happened. She curled into a tight ball on the mattress, willing the feeling to stop. She didn’t want to throw up. She wanted to go home.

  The room was pitch black and smelt so strongly of bleach it caught in the back of her throat and made her want to gag. She felt dreadful. Her head was too fuzzy to reason what was going on.

  She waited for the waves of nausea to wane. Beside her was a wall. Her fingers flicked across the wallpaper. The contact helped her overcome the panic in her chest. She was in a room. At least it wasn’t a coffin. She’d seen a horror film where a girl got buried alive in a coffin. The thought made her shiver. She pushed into a seated position, her bare feet dangling over the bed. Cool air brushed against the soles of her feet. Where were her shoes? She dropped an arm to the floor. Felt for them. They weren’t by the bed.

  She shut her eyes tightly to better fight another wave of nausea, and when she felt it recede she wriggled forward, feet touching wooden floorboards. Breathe. There would be a simple explanation. She wanted her bag and phone. She’d call her mum. Mum would know what to do. With a hand outstretched she felt for a bedside table. There was a lamp on her bedside table at home. She only had to touch the base and it would automatically light up. There was no such table here. Where was the light switch?

  She had no option other than to feel her way along the wall in the hope she’d find the door and a switch or, better still, a way of getting out of the room. Her feet padded silently as she felt up and down, frightened of coming into contact with something sharp or harmful.

  As her fingers found a doorframe, she heard a soft wheeze, as if someone was letting out a breath they’d held in for a long time. There it was again. Somebody was behind her. Rooted to the spot, she could no longer think. Her worst fears were about to play out. She was going to be murdered.

  A ghostly orange light bounced off the wall in front of her.

  ‘I hope you weren’t thinking of leaving just yet. Turn around. Let’s get a proper look at you.’

  She turned slowly to face it, trying desperately to control the
fear that was mounting. A figure wearing a cycling helmet topped with a bright light stood in front of her.

  ‘What do you look like? Oh dear, oh dear, Florence. You and I need to have a serious conversation.’

  Fifty-Two

  Mitz and Robyn headed back to Uttoxeter and the station. The rain had stopped but now a chilly wind blew. Robyn’s heart was heavy. The visit that morning to Mrs Chambers had not given her much to go on. She had so little to pin on Elliot Chambers, and no other suspects.

  Mitz checked the arrival board and glanced about the station. ‘Train due in two minutes.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s wait.’

  Robyn wrapped her coat tightly around her and waited as the train hissed into the station. A door opened and a guard in a blue uniform dismounted, allowing the passengers off. Mitz waited until they’d disembarked then spoke to the man. ‘Couldn’t help but notice there are only two carriages.’

  ‘That’s normal,’ replied the guard. ‘Not usually very busy, although it gets busier when it’s race day at Uttoxeter.’

  ‘You do this route frequently?’

  ‘Fairly frequently, why?’

  Robyn pulled out photographs of Amber and Carrie. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen either of these girls on this train?’

  ‘I don’t recognise them,’ he said.

  Robyn held up the photograph of Amber. ‘Would it help if I said this girl might have boarded the train at Tutbury and Hatton, sometime around the second of January?’

  He studied the photograph again. ‘No. I’d have remembered her face. She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she? Sorry. I can’t help. We have to leave. Timetable and all that.’ He climbed back into the train. The doors swished shut and the train eased away.

  Robyn felt defeated. Here she was on a miserable Wednesday evening, clutching at straws. Mitz surveyed the empty car park. ‘I’m not sure about this, boss.’