‘But interesting, nonetheless. Can you tell me more about your birth parents?’
Estelle folded her legs, her cheeks flushing. ‘I don’t think it’s really relevant.’
‘I’m writing a profile piece, Estelle,’ Louis said, voice suddenly hard. ‘I think it’s very relevant.’
Now she saw the man who’d exposed the ‘Queen of Calm’.
‘They just couldn’t cope with a child, they were very young themselves,’ she said, glossing over the truth. ‘Then I was in care and lived with some foster families. It wasn’t ideal. I don’t know what else there is to say really.’ She added a smile, just to make it light.
‘You lived in Devon for a bit, didn’t you?’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Lillysands?’
She tried to keep her face neutral. She’d worked so hard to leave her time in Lillysands behind, but now here it was again, bringing all those memories to the surface. ‘You really have been doing your research,’ she said with a nervous laugh as she peered towards the fridge where the photo lay.
‘I spoke to an old geography teacher of yours, Mr Tate. He said you left the town abruptly when you were fifteen.’
Estelle swallowed. He’d been talking to her old teacher? Had he talked to anyone else in Lillysands …? What else had he discovered?
‘That’s the way it is with foster parents,’ she said, trying to remain calm. ‘I never knew how long I’d be with them.’
‘But you chose to leave?’ Louis said. ‘He told me your foster parents were devastated.’
Estelle closed her eyes. She’d left a note for them, a nice note, thanking them. But how could she have stayed in Lillysands? It was impossible.
‘It was time to leave,’ Estelle said. ‘My foster parents understood.’
‘Yes, your foster parents. Autumn and Max Garland,’ Louis said, looking at his notes. The mention of their names made Estelle tense up. ‘They’re quite well known in Lillysands, so I’m told,’ he continued. ‘He’s a local property developer, right? She’s a food taster. Was she the reason you got into nutrition and food?’
Estelle put hers finger to her temples, massaging them as she closed her eyes.
Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
‘Estelle?’
She quickly opened her eyes. ‘I—’
A loud noise suddenly pierced the air. The smoke alarm! Estelle peered towards the oven to see smoke drifting out of it. In the tension of the moment, she hadn’t even noticed the scent of burning in the air.
‘Fuck,’ she hissed.
Louis raised an eyebrow as she darted to the oven, pulling the flapjacks out.
They were burnt.
She took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ she said, looking at Louis with a shaky smile. ‘Maybe I need a timer after all.’
He looked into her eyes, frown deepening. ‘Is everything okay, Estelle?’
‘Fine, fine! I’ll do a new batch and get them over to you.’ She peered towards the front door. She needed him gone. The photo, combined with his questions, were making her lose her grip. She needed to be in control when talking to someone like him, especially when it came to her past. ‘So you have everything you need?’ she asked, picking his jacket up for him.
Louis peered at his watch. ‘I’ve only been here twenty minutes. I was hoping—’
‘Great,’ Estelle said. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
He slowly gathered his stuff up, frowning as he looked at her. ‘If this is about the line of questioning …’
‘Oh no!’ Estelle said in a too-high voice. She could feel herself losing it, the stench of the burning flapjacks clogging her nostrils, the memory of the bloody Polaroid and her past seeming to burn into her too. ‘It’s all fine. It’s just that I have an event to run to,’ she lied. ‘You’ll be at the launch party, right? How about we grab ten minutes then, just you and I, to finish this?’
Estelle walked him to the door, legs shaking.
‘Is everything really okay?’ he asked as he stepped out onto the doorstep.
‘Perfect, just busy busy busy.’ Then she closed the door in his face.
She stayed where she was a few moments, sensing his presence outside. When she heard his footsteps, she ran back to the kitchen, getting on her hands and knees and scrabbling under the fridge to find the photo. She pulled it out then leaned against a cupboard, staring at the girl, heartbeat going a million miles a minute.
She frowned, peering closer. The girl looked like the TV presenter’s daughter they’d been talking about last night; the girl who had run away.
She grabbed her laptop, and searched for stories about the missing girl, clicking on the first one she found. As she opened the article, the first thing she saw was a photo of the girl with her arms around a dog, her cheek against its whiskers, a huge smile on her face. Estelle looked at the Polaroid she’d received, then back at the girl.
Yes, it was the same person. She was sure of it. But why was this photo being sent to Estelle? She didn’t have any connection with the girl. And why that message? It didn’t make sense.
Estelle read the article with the photo.
TV presenter makes appeal to missing daughter
TV presenter Chris O’Farrell made a desperate appeal for the return of his fifteen-year-old daughter, Poppy. The presenter of daytime show Here and Now looked distraught as he talked directly to the camera, explaining to viewers that Poppy had run away in the early hours the day before, leaving behind a note.
Poppy.
Estelle peered again at the poppies that had been sent to her. It must be connected.
The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
She quickly clicked on a video accompanying the article about the missing girl. Chris O’Farrell, handsome and silver-haired, looked imploringly into camera. ‘Poppy, please come home, darling. We all love and miss you very much. Sandy’s at the door waiting and whining for you. There will be no harsh words, no accusations. We just want you home.’ His voice broke, his eyes filling with tears. Then the video stopped. Below it was a number to call with any sightings.
Estelle looked at the Polaroid again. She should call the number. She quickly took a photo of the Polaroid as back-up, then dialled.
‘Hello, Metropolitan Police,’ a woman answered.
‘I’m calling about Poppy O’Farrell. Can I be put through to DC Jones?’ she asked, looking at the name of the detective in charge of the case.
‘Can I just ask a few details about why you’re calling first?’ the woman on the other end asked in a bored voice. ‘We’re getting quite a few calls after her father went on air.’
‘I received a photo of Poppy this morning,’ Estelle said.
‘Okay. Do you mean in the post?’
‘With my meat delivery.’ Estelle peered at the blood still under her nails from the meat. She felt nausea build inside.
‘I see.’ The officer was clearly intrigued now. ‘Are you connected with Poppy?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
There was a pause, a rustling of paper in the background. ‘Tell me more about the photo.’
‘It’s a Polaroid photo, a close-up of her.’ Estelle looked at the message on the bottom. ‘And there’s a message on it.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It says, “They say you’re as pure as the driven snow”,’ Estelle read out the note in a trembling voice. ‘“But I know you’re not. I’m watching you. I know everything about you.”’
There was the sound of scribbling. ‘Are you sure it’s Poppy in the photo?’
Estelle looked at the image on the news site. Poppy was peering into the camera, a castle behind her, her long dyed red hair lifting in the wind. Then Estelle looked at the Polaroid photo. ‘It’s definitely her.’
Holding the phone against her ear, Estelle looked up more images from other news sites. In them, Poppy had brown hair. She must have dyed her hair recently.
‘Okay, let me put you through to DC Jones. Can I firs
t take your name?’
‘Estelle Forster.’
‘Do I recognise that name?’
‘I’m a food writer,’ Estelle said. Estelle got that spark of pride she felt when people recognised her name. The publisher’s PR firm had done a great job of getting her in a variety of magazines and newspapers so it was happening more and more.
‘Of course! How interesting. So, is there a number we can contact you on just in case we get cut off?’
Estelle reeled off her phone number, and her address too. Then, after a wait, she was put through to DC Jones.
‘Hello, DC Jones speaking,’ a deep voice answered. ‘How can I help, Miss Forster?’
Estelle repeated everything she’d just told the other woman.
‘I see,’ the detective said. ‘And to confirm, you’re not connected to Poppy O’Farrell.’
‘Not that I know of. It’s all so strange.’
The detective sighed. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, to be honest. Her father’s famous. It brings all the nutters out of the woodwork. I hear you’re a well-known food writer, so your name must be out there too? Maybe it’s just someone trying to get your attention.’
‘Maybe,’ Estelle murmured. She ought to feel better, calmer, speaking to the two officers. But she only felt more confused.
‘We’ll have an officer stop by to take a statement.’
‘When?’
‘We will call you to let you know, probably today, maybe tomorrow. As you can imagine, it’s been rather busy since Mr O’Farrell put that plea out.’
‘Of course.’
‘Call us in the meantime if you receive anything else.’
‘I will.’
He hung up. At least she’d made the call, Estelle thought. But as she looked down at the photo, she couldn’t help but feel frustrated. Why had it been sent to her?
She took a deep breath. She’d done all she could.
‘Interesting cleaning technique there.’ Estelle peered up at Seb, who was watching her with a frown as she scrubbed for the hundredth time at wooden floorboards later that afternoon. The blood from the meat was gone but Estelle had to be sure.
She wiped her hand across her forehead and smiled. ‘Just want it spic and span.’
‘What’s going on? You only clean like this when you’re anxious. We do have a cleaner, you know.’
She paused. She knew she would have to tell Seb about the photo and the note. But she needed more time to figure out how she felt about them.
‘Oh, you know, just the launch of my book in a month,’ Estelle said.
‘You don’t need to worry about that; it’ll be perfect.’
She blew her blonde fringe from her eyes and stood up. ‘You’re right. Want a snack?’
‘Not if you’re going to offer me those,’ he said, looking at the dish of burnt flapjacks.
Estelle followed his gaze. She was going to see if she could salvage them in some way; she hated waste. She’d seen enough of it when she’d lived with the Garlands. But Seb was right, they were a lost cause.
‘I have some chia energy balls in the fridge,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Let’s have some outside with some peppermint tea.’
Seb smiled. ‘Sounds great.’
A few minutes later, they were both sitting in the rooftop garden. Estelle looked around, trying to still her busy mind. When she’d moved in, it was just made up of fake grass. Seb hadn’t had time to maintain a garden with his busy schedule before his injury: daily intensive training, media interviews and appearances, meetings with his trainer, all meaning his house and garden were neglected. She’d set about changing that, paving it over with beautiful reclaimed stones, and introducing vegetable and fruit boxes. She’d also put up trellises around the edges, interlacing fairy lights with a variety of climbing fruit plants. Whenever anyone came around, they commented on how pretty it was. It played a part in her book too, a whole section on creating your own ‘city allotment’ at home. It usually calmed her sitting out here, especially when it was early summer: not too hot nor too cold, the tops of the trees heavy with blossom, the sun a warm yellow globe above.
But there was no sense of calm today, the Polaroid photo kept playing on her mind.
‘That girl we were talking about last night hasn’t returned yet,’ Seb said. Estelle froze. ‘They’ve delayed my radio piece because of some special on runaway kids,’ he added.
‘Oh, Seb,’ Estelle said, leaning across and placing her hand over his. ‘I’m sorry about that; I know how excited you were about it.’
He shook his head in disgust. ‘And all for a teenager. She’s probably gone off with some boyfriend or another.’
Estelle closed her eyes. She had to say something. ‘Seb, I need to talk to you.’
He frowned, putting his paper down. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I received this strange photo in my meat delivery this morning.’
She showed him the photo she’d taken of it on her phone – the real photo she’d placed in a drawer in her office.
He examined it then peered up at her. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you recognise the girl?’
He looked closer, then it dawned on him. ‘The presenter’s daughter. Why the hell would you receive a photo of her?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘Of course. I’m not sure they’re taking it too seriously.’
‘But the message written on it!’
‘You’re telling me.’ She stood up. ‘I need some fresh air. I might go for a bike ride.’
Seb looked up at her in surprise. ‘You’re not going to even tell me what it means?’
‘I have no idea myself! I’m sorry, there’s not much more to say. I – I need to get out.’ She grabbed her keys and jacket, giving Seb a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’
As she headed out of the door, she heard the clink of glass and the hiss of Seb opening a bottle of beer in the kitchen. Fine, if that was the way he wanted to cope. This was her way. She wasn’t prepared to open up about her past. She wanted it to remain there, not here in her present life.
She went around the side of the house and got her bike from the shed, jumping on it and pedalling straight to the Thames. It was busy out (wasn’t it always in London?), but there was a jovial feel in the air too, smiles on people’s faces as they took in the sun’s soft rays.
But Estelle couldn’t feel happy. She mulled over the photo and the note scrawled on it. The words rang a vague bell. I know everything about you. Maybe they meant her past. Her parents. Was it a threat to expose her background? Not great for someone who was advocating pure and healthy living. And then there was what happened in Lillysands.
But what did all this have to do with Poppy?
She pedalled faster, harder, her breath quickening to catch up with the thoughts running through her mind.
‘Watch out!’ someone shouted.
Estelle looked up to see she’d nearly knocked a man over.
‘Sorry!’ she shouted over her shoulder. She slowed down, calming her breath. In the distance, she saw Borough Market. She jumped off her bike and pushed it towards the market, immersing herself in the hubbub of the stalls, breathing in the scent of spices, the tangy meat and salty fish. The market calmed her, the familiarity of all the smells and noises; the nod to her normal routine. It felt to her like everything had changed with the arrival of that photo; her whole world had tilted on its axis.
She’d felt that way when she’d been taken from her parents too. Out of control, floating on a turbulent sea, but also the certain knowledge things were to change for good.
She needed an anchor now just as she did then. An anchor in familiarity.
She stopped in front of a fruit and veg stall, taking in the exuberant colours in front of her. She picked up a papaya, cupping her hand around it and weighing it, feeling its yellow skin with her thumb. It yielded slightly. Ripe. Delicious.
‘Hello, Estelle!’
She looked up to see her greengrocer, a stocky man with a pierced ear, smiling at her.
‘Hi Tomas.’ She handed over the fruit.
He frowned. ‘Just this today?’
‘Just this,’ she replied, distracted, her mind too full to focus on buying anything else.
Why? she kept asking herself. Why send it to her?
Estelle paid for the papaya then walked back into the crowds, leaving the market and finding a quiet alleyway as she pulled out her phone. She needed to find out more about Poppy O’Farrell.
There must be some kind of connection.
She explored all the articles she could find about Poppy, eyes glancing over her pretty face in the various photos of her; the familiar media shots of her famous father.
Then a headline came up, a story from that morning. As she took it in, Estelle went completely still.
Poppy O’Farrell Adopted
‘Oh Jesus,’ she whispered. The walls of the alleyway seemed to press in around her.
Calm down, she told herself. Plenty of kids are adopted.
She snuck a look at the photo she’d taken of the Polaroid on her phone, at the girl’s brown eyes, the brown roots showing …
Estelle closed her eyes, heart thumping. Then she quickly dialled the number DC Jones had given her. He picked up within a few rings.
‘It’s Estelle Forster, we spoke earlier,’ she said in a hurry. ‘I just read Poppy O’Farrell’s adopted. Is it true?’
A sigh. ‘Yes, I heard that had got out. Why are you asking?’
‘It’s just—’ Estelle paused.
‘Just what?’ the detective pushed.
Estelle swallowed, mouth feeling unbearably dry. ‘I – I gave a baby up for adoption fifteen years ago, a girl.’ She thought of the photo of Poppy again … brown eyes just like Estelle’s.
‘I see,’ the detective replied slowly. ‘Where did you give birth?’
‘Lillysands, a town in Devon.’
He paused a moment. ‘I think we should come and have a chat with you now, Estelle.’
Estelle leaned against the wall, blinking away tears.
Her Last Breath Page 3
