The Lost Girls: Maggie Turner Suspense Series book #1

by Pryke, Helen

  ‘Our sisters were abducted four years ago, and the police never found them… or their bodies,’ Chloe began. ‘They say if any more information comes to light then they’ll reopen the investigation, but for now they’ve stopped everything.’

  ‘Four years ago?’ Maggie thought for a moment. ‘That would be 2015, right?’

  ‘Yes. My sister, Jane, disappeared on the second of June 2015, and Mike’s sister, Charlotte, disappeared on the eighteenth. You must have heard about it, the story was on all the news channels and in all the papers. The Southern Recorder interviewed our parents and ran articles for months afterwards, with updates and requests for information.’

  Maggie’s mouth was dry, but her hands were clammy with sweat. ‘That… wasn’t a good period for me,’ she said after a moment. ‘My family and I were going through a personal crisis, and I wasn’t working at the time. I didn’t write any articles about the case.’ She thought back to those first hectic days in April that year, when her sister had phoned to tell her Thomas had disappeared. The police had thought he’d simply run away, as his rucksack and some clothes were missing too, and precious time had been lost. By the time they’d taken his disappearance seriously, it was too late to search for him. Any initial traces were long gone, and they had no trail to follow. Sally had confided to her one night after a few drinks that she wished they could turn back the clock and start the investigation over again. Then they’d found Thomas’s body… She was brought back to the present by Mike’s voice, penetrating her thoughts.

  ‘But you must remember,’ he insisted. ‘It was a national story for weeks.’

  Dim recollections of newsreaders talking with serious faces came to Maggie’s mind, along with blurred headlines she’d barely been able to read through her tears. ‘Just a minute.’

  She clicked the mouse and the computer came to life. She scrolled through the archives and found the relevant articles about the girls. She ignored those of the week before, she didn’t want to read anything about that period of her life.

  ‘Okay, here we are.’ She quickly skimmed over them, focusing on the main points of the first few articles. She frowned as she read, the story coming back to her. ‘Oh my God, now I remember! I apologise for not recognising you earlier. Like I said, we had our own problems back then. So, the police never found them?’

  ‘Nope. They interviewed loads of people, all their friends, teachers, the last ones to see them, they even had a suspect at one point, but nothing ever came of it. It’s like they just disappeared into thin air.’ Mike fidgeted on his chair. ‘I was supposed to wait with her for Mum to come and pick us up, but I went off with my friends and left her there alone.’ His eyes glistened as he spoke.

  Maggie picked up her pen. ‘So, what would you like me to do?’

  Chloe glanced at Mike, then straightened her shoulders before speaking. ‘We’d like you to investigate, obviously. Go back and speak to people, find out if the police missed anything, see if you can turn up any new information the police can use to find them. Right, Mike?’

  He nodded. ‘We didn’t bother going to the national papers. We wanted someone from the area who cares about these sorts of things, who’s not scared to dig deep for answers.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliments,’ Maggie said, smiling. She tapped her pen against her notebook, adrenaline rushing through her body at the thought of going back to what she loved most. ‘All right. I’ll speak with my boss and see if he’ll okay me to investigate. How old are you?’

  ‘I’m almost nineteen, and Chloe’s sixteen,’ Mike replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll need to speak with your parents, then, make sure they’re all right with it. Though I don’t really investigate anymore, I haven’t for a while now.’ She stopped when she saw their faces. ‘Well, I guess I could give it a go. But…’ She held her hand up as they rushed to thank her. ‘I can’t promise anything. It’s been a while, the trail will have gone cold. Unless I can find any new witnesses or something the police missed – which isn’t very likely – I won’t be able to help you.’

  ‘But you’ll try?’ Chloe looked at her with wide, trusting eyes.

  Maggie’s heart melted. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised.

  * * *

  Andy sat on the edge of her desk as she watched them enter the lift. ‘You’re a big softie, you know?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s an investigation. I’m an investigative journalist. It’s my job.’

  ‘Not anymore you’re not, not since… you know, Thomas.’ He glanced at her. ‘And Roger’s not going to be too happy about it. You know how he hates anyone using their own initiative.’

  ‘I’m just going to have to persuade him, then, aren’t I? Those kids deserve a break, don’t you think?’

  12

  Charlotte’s memories of that first night were hazy, but they were enough to still make her feel sick, even now, four long years later. After he’d finished with her, he’d left her on the cold stone floor, shivering in fear. Jane had come in later with a mug of tea, which she’d thrown against the wall when Charlotte had refused to drink it. Jane had been hot and cold; angry at first, then she’d put an arm around her shoulders until she’d cried herself to sleep. She’d thought they would become friends.

  She jumped as he poked his head around the cellar door. ‘You’re not ready,’ he snapped, looking in disdain at the mess. ‘I said nine o’clock, pronto.’

  She lay curled up on the mattress, hugging her stomach. ‘I don’t feel well.’

  His face contorted in anger as he walked over to her. Charlotte cried out in pain as he took a hold of one of her pigtails and twisted it, pulling her around to look at him. ‘I don’t care. You should be packed already. You know the rules.’

  She shuddered at his expression. His grey eyes were as cold and emotionless as they’d been the night before, when he’d dragged her down there and kicked her repeatedly in the stomach after Jane had told him Charlotte was pregnant.

  ‘I’ll be ready soon,’ she said quietly, averting her gaze. She’d been beaten too many times to not recognise the forewarning signs of anger building up in him. He didn’t like her to look him in the eyes, he saw it as an act of defiance. ‘I-I’ll get ready, it won’t take me long.’

  He stepped back, still holding her hair, almost pulling her up on her knees. She clung onto the sheets, her stomach cramping painfully. She wished she could see a doctor, but that was impossible. She would just have to pray she survived this, that the bleeding would stop soon.

  ‘You’ve got twenty minutes. Whatever you haven’t packed stays here,’ he told her. ‘Jane’s ready, she’s waiting in the living room.’ He turned and left the cellar, stomping up the stairs.

  ‘Of course she is,’ Charlotte muttered. ‘Bloody perfect Jane, always sucking up, thinking she’s so important.’

  It hadn’t always been like that. In the beginning, when she arrived, they’d huddled together in the cellar in that first house, sharing warmth and comfort. Whispered plans of escape had got them through the long, endless hours, even though she’d sensed Jane wavering occasionally, as if she couldn’t bear the thought of going home. She didn’t speak much about her family, but the little she did say gave Charlotte the impression she felt like an outsider in her own house. Charlotte had felt sorry for her at first; she couldn’t imagine her life without Mikey, no matter how annoying he could be. She could almost understand Jane’s reluctance to return home, if her family treated her like that.

  They’d spent ages planning their escape, long hours searching the cellar for anything they could use as a weapon. That fateful day, they’d hidden in the shadows underneath the stairs and waited for him to come home. Charlotte grasped the handle of the half-empty tin of paint, the narrow metal band digging into her fingers, ready to swing it at his head when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Jane, crouched behind her, suddenly grabbed her arm.

  ‘What if we mess it up?’ she said, agitated. ‘You know what he’ll do
to us.’

  Charlotte gritted her teeth. ‘We can’t mess it up, then, can we?’ She jumped as a noise came from overhead. ‘Shush.’

  Footsteps sounded, floorboards creaked as he moved around, the toilet flushed, and water gurgled down the pipe behind the wall. The cellar door opened, a stream of sunlight chasing away the gloom. Charlotte gripped the tin of paint more tightly, and braced herself.

  She never understood what had happened next. One moment she’d been ready to swing the tin at his head, and then pandemonium had broken out. He’d turned his head and seen them; at first incredulous, realisation had swept over his face. Furious, he’d lunged at her, but she still could have hit him, if the tin hadn’t somehow got caught up in something. Even now, she didn’t want to believe that Jane had had anything to do with it, but the doubt remained.

  They’d both been beaten that day, and many more times after, until bone-numbing fear had replaced Charlotte’s determination to escape. Suspicion had continued to insinuate itself in her mind, and the girls’ tenuous bond, born of shared troubles rather than friendship, shattered. A couple of half-hearted attempts to make new plans had fallen to the side as they grew further apart, and every evening his poisonous words had filled Jane with self-importance and Charlotte with dread.

  Early one morning, while they were lying on the mattress, she’d tried opening up to Jane. It had been a disaster.

  ‘I miss my mum and my dad, and Mikey… I wish I was dead right now.’ She’d said the last words with such viciousness, almost spitting them out, that she could see Jane was shocked, but she didn’t care.

  ‘You shouldn’t talk like that,’ Jane muttered. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but you mustn’t say those things.’

  ‘How can you bear him touching you?’ Charlie asked, whispering. She glanced at the door leading to the stairs, afraid he would appear at any moment. ‘Those clammy hands of his, his breath all over you, never saying a word the whole time. It makes me feel sick. And what’s with the hair? Always touching it, making us wear it in pigtails… it’s creepy.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Charlie saw Jane’s clenched fists, held close to her sides, and recoiled, afraid the other girl would slap her face. ‘SHUT UP!’ Jane then lowered her voice, as if worried that he would hear them. ‘He’s given us everything we need, he looks after us and loves us. How dare you speak about him like that.’

  ‘He took me away from my family, I didn’t want to come,’ Charlie snivelled. Snot bubbled at her nose, and Jane tutted loudly.

  ‘Get a hold of yourself, or he might think it’s easier to get rid of you,’ she hissed, pulling Charlie’s hair and making her squeak in pain. ‘Nobody would ever find your body here, and your parents will never know what happened to you. Shit happens. Get over it.’

  Charlie had sobbed as Jane turned and pulled the blanket over her head, putting an end to the conversation. She’d withdrawn into herself after that, creating her own world inside her head, a protective bubble where neither he nor Jane could touch her, no matter what was happening on the outside.

  A sudden spasm brought her back to the present. She clutched her sides, another wave of pain shooting through her, and dashed to the bucket in the corner.

  * * *

  Charlotte sat in the back of the van, as usual, in amongst their meagre belongings and carrier bags of food. She was sick of moving, sick of being shut up in yet another house, sick of cold, damp cellars where her worst nightmares came true. He might have beaten her both physically and psychologically into submission, threatening to hurt both her and her family, but deep inside there was still a tiny spark of rebellion, waiting.

  Jane was up front, laughing and chatting as they drove through the town. For one moment, Charlotte had the crazy idea of banging loudly on the sides when they stopped at the next traffic light, hoping that someone would hear. But she discarded it immediately. She’d tried that in the beginning, not long after he took her. He’d hustled both girls into the Punto the morning after their attempt to escape, still drowsy from whatever he’d put in their milk at breakfast, covered them with a blanket, and driven away from that godforsaken house. Charlotte had been aware enough to lift herself up and bang her fist on the window, her mouth open to scream for help, until the thump on the back of her head had knocked her out.

  Yet, while she hated him with every bone in her body, Jane had revelled in his attentions. Charlotte got it; Jane hadn’t had a loving family like hers, or many friends, and had been craving for love, any love, for years. But this?

  Charlotte glanced down at her stomach, flat and empty. The pains had passed, only an occasional cramp reminded her of what had been. For three months she’d kept her secret, warm and glowing inside her, allowing herself to dream of a future where she wouldn’t be alone. Where she might be more important than Jane, a little voice whispered inside her head. Because there were times when it rankled being at the bottom.

  She’d wanted to gloat a little, show off even, so she’d let it slip to Jane, the words bursting from her as she’d shared her secret. Jane’s hug and little shriek of joy had surprised her, but then she’d hugged her back, relieved that everything was okay.

  Until they’d started talking about names.

  After exhausting a list of all the most unusual and downright stupid names, Charlotte had had a sudden thought. ‘Hey, what about Chloe?’

  ‘What?’ Jane snapped. ‘Don’t even think about it, Charlie.’

  Charlotte ignored her. ‘It’s a lovely name, especially as it’s your sis–’ She yelped as Jane punched her in the mouth.

  ‘I hate you,’ she’d hissed.

  That evening at dinner, Charlotte knew Jane had told him.

  His reaction had terrified her. He’d told them so many times that he was their family now, and how much he loved them and wanted them to stay together forever, that she’d imagined news of a baby, his baby, would have delighted him. Instead, he’d shouted at her, calling her every name under the sun, then taken her to the cellar where he’d kicked her repeatedly, all the while crying to his mother, begging for her forgiveness. She’d started to bleed almost right away, warm blood streaming down her legs as he continued to kick.

  She’d begged him to call an ambulance or take her to hospital afterwards, but he’d laughed at her and sent Jane down to help. She’d thought she would die down there in that musty room, her face pressed into the dirt floor, her body nibbled by rats until only the bare bones remained. Would her family have ever discovered what had happened to her?

  Her family. Charlotte hung her head, miserable as she thought about them. She tried not to imagine the pain they must be going through, not knowing where she was all this time. She regretted laughing at her mum for worrying and fussing so much. If only she’d known back then… She shook her head, refusing to let those thoughts in. It was too painful, knowing she’d never see them again, that this man had taken her away from the people she loved without leaving a trace. She wondered how nobody had ever discovered what he’d done. But they moved often and he kept them hidden from sight in each house, either in the cellar or locked in a room with boarded-up windows, never letting them go out, so it was hardly surprising nobody had ever sussed what was going on. And after his threats to destroy her family, she would never have dared to ask anyone for help anyway. Much better she live this half-life than see her brother crippled or her mother’s face burned with acid.

  She knew he was capable of doing it. After all, he’d threatened to cut off her plaster cast with a rusty hacksaw, laughing as she pleaded with him not to do it, scared witless that one slip could leave her with a nasty, infected cut, or worse. He’d enjoyed her fear, delighted in it, she’d seen it in his eyes. Just when she thought she was going to wet herself in terror, he told her he’d never had any intention of using the saw, and produced the bowl of water and vinegar he’d already prepared to soak the cast off. Trembling with shock, she’d never felt so grateful in her life. She hadn’t dared to ask him if she could
keep her cast. Being able to read the messages everyone had written had kept her connected to them somehow; without them, it was like she’d lost her grip on reality.

  Maybe Jane had been the sensible one, letting him convince her that her family no longer wanted her, that he was the only one who mattered now. Certainly her life was easier than Charlotte’s. But Charlotte knew these were lies; she had to cling to the belief that her family were still searching for her, desperate to get her back. Otherwise, what else did she have?

  Yet each passing day brought her closer to giving up.

  13

  Charlie was always my favourite sister. I know that’s wrong, that I shouldn’t have a favourite, but there it is. She was always so happy, brightening everyone’s day with her laughter and chatter, that it was impossible not to love her. But now, I can’t understand where I’ve gone wrong. This sullen, pale imitation isn’t anything like her. When I was spying on her, I’d been delighted by her enthusiasm for life, her vivacity and eagerness, whether she was going to school or taking the dog for a walk. How different the reality is. All those hours I spent carefully choosing the two girls who would bring joy back into my life, all wasted.

  But how can I start over again? I can’t, not after all the effort I’ve invested in these two. I can’t have got it wrong, it couldn’t be my fault. It’s the girls, they just have to learn to get along better, like before.

  * * *

  We were so close, me, Charlotte, and Jane. The three musketeers, Mother called us. Everything was good for a few years, while the girls were little, but then Mother started leaving us alone at night, once again. This time I was older, and this time I knew what her nights out meant. Her dirty secret hung about her, almost visible; I could smell their cheap aftershaves, mixed with the odour of sweat and musk, clinging to her as I tried to hug her, like a shroud around her shame. She no longer wanted me, and pushed me away whenever I went to her for comfort.