by Amy M. Reade
“Is there anything you want me to do?”
“Tell Mum where I’ve gone.”
“You don’t have to get mad, Greer,” Sylvie said, a large hint of petulance in her voice.
“Sylvie, for God’s sake, I’m not mad. I’m stressed! I’m upset! Have you any idea how difficult this is for me?” I responded in a loud whisper. I didn’t want to wake other inn guests by having a row with Sylvie this late at night.
She turned away from me and pulled the covers over her head. Next time my mother wanted to make a helpful suggestion, I was going to ask her to keep her brilliant ideas to herself.
Downstairs, I woke the innkeeper, who was sleeping in a swivel chair behind the desk. I asked where the police station was. With an alarmed look in his eyes, he gave me directions. I could tell he was bursting to ask questions, but I didn’t have time to engage in conversation with him and I left in a hurry.
It didn’t take me long to get to the police station. I was ushered into a small room where I waited a short while for an officer to join me. When she finally arrived, I told her my entire story, beginning with the phone call from Ellie’s school and ending with the texts from Neill. I had told the story so many times it was becoming automatic, almost like it had happened to someone else. I asked her if she could figure out where Neill was by triangulating his mobile phone signals.
Her eyes held a pitying look when she answered. “Yes, we can try that. But I want to give you fair warning: If you know mobile phone signals can be triangulated, so does he. I’m sure he was calling from a place other than where he’s staying.”
“But you can try?” I pressed her.
“We definitely can do that.” She scribbled the mobile number on a pad of paper. “Why don’t you head back to your hotel, and we’ll have someone get in touch when we have an answer?” she suggested.
I returned to the inn with a heavy heart. Where there should have been hope, there was a growing feeling of despair. I had failed to keep Ellie safe back at home. What if I couldn’t keep her safe in Edinburgh, either?
There were still a couple hours of darkness left when I returned to the inn. I slipped quietly into my room and crawled under the covers without even removing my street clothes. I lay awake until gray and purple began to streak the sky, listening to Sylvie’s steady breathing, wishing I could sleep. I always suffered when I didn’t get enough sleep. I had a hard time focusing. I’d been getting headaches, I was cranky and short with people. Like I had been to Sylvie. I felt sorry for the way I had spoken to her, though she had practically asked for it. I resolved to apologize to her when she awoke.
But when Sylvie woke up, she was in rare form. She stomped about the room, throwing clothes aside looking for the right pair of trousers, grumbling that she needed tea, complaining about the cold in the room, and insisting that my trip to the police station in the night had robbed her of an hour of sleep. I no longer felt sorry for her and decided to apologize some other time.
We met Mum for breakfast in the dining room, where Sylvie proceeded to explain to her why she was in such a foul mood. Mum looked at me with sympathy, but I didn’t care any longer. I knew these moods of Sylvie’s; it might take a day or so, but her good humor would eventually return and this rant would be forgotten. At least by Sylvie.
Mum announced that she was thinking of returning to Dumfries because she had a doctor’s appointment the following day.
“Unless you want me to stay, of course,” she said. “I’m really not that much help to you, I’m afraid. And as long as the police are looking for Neill, there’s not much I can do right now. I’ll come back as soon as you know something. And Sylvie will be here for support, won’t you, Sylvie?” Sylvie looked up and nodded sullenly. I hoped she was feeling sorry for the way she had acted.
Part of me knew Mum was right, but part of me was reluctant to see her leave. She had been an important source of comfort during my discouraging days in Edinburgh.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said to them, “I may look for a flat to rent for a short time. Just so we have a place to call home while we’re in Edinburgh. This inn is nice, but it feels so…” I searched for the right word. “So itinerant. I’m living out of a duffel bag, Sylvie is living out of a suitcase. We need a place that feels more like home. More like normal. A place where I can wander around at night if I can’t sleep. And a place where I can work if I feel like it.”
Sylvie perked up. “Could Seamus stay there with us?” she asked, her eyes bright.
I nodded, resigned to the coming presence of Seamus. I had the feeling he was going to be around all the time no matter where we stayed, so Sylvie might as well have her own room to entertain him. More importantly, I might as well have a place where I could escape them. She grinned at me. “Thanks, Greer. That’s great.”
“Now, will you try a bit harder to help me?” I asked her. “You can be in charge of finding a place to stay.”
She nodded, stuffing a rasher of bacon in her mouth.
Mum packed after breakfast and left later that morning, amid promises to return soon and good wishes for finding Ellie. She made me swear to update her twice each day, even if there were no news.
Sylvie, armed with a list of numbers to call for flats to let, left shortly after Mum did. I instructed her to take pictures of each place she visited and not to sign anything. Then I called the police station, hoping to speak with the officer I had seen in the middle of the night, but she had gone off shift early in the morning. The person who answered the phone promised to have her call me when she got to work that evening.
I took a bus out to the airport to see if the people at customs or the airport police had heard or seen or found anything that might be of help to me in finding Ellie and Neill, but that was another dead end. No one knew of anything else that could answer my questions.
I spent the rest of the day wandering the Royal Mile like any other tourist, popping into an occasional bookstore or tartan shop, thinking constantly of the things I would love to buy for Ellie. I ended up choosing a stuffed Scottie dog for her, as well as a packet of shortbread cookies and a children’s history of Edinburgh. She would love them. I only wished she had been able to tour the Royal Mile with me. I kept a steady eye on the people milling about in case Neill had taken Ellie for an outing, perhaps to hide in plain sight. But no luck.
Toward the end of the afternoon, Sylvie must have taken a break from flat-hunting because I received fifty or so photos of places she had visited during the day. There were a few photos that caught my interest. I called her, asking questions about the ones I liked best. She sounded excited—I had known this assignment would appeal to her.
“There’s one you would love, Greer. It’s an old Georgian house divided into three flats, one on each story. It’s across from a huge park and it’s on a quiet street not far from the inn. It’s a beauty! And it comes furnished!”
That sounded promising. I told Sylvie to call the estate agent so I could see the flat. She made arrangements for me to see it the next day.
There had been no further word from the airport or the police. The officer I had spoken to the previous night called and she had no information for me, either. I was at sea. I needed to do something, to feel like I was making every effort to find my daughter. Sitting in my room wasn’t doing any good. Since Ellie’s favorite thing was go to the playground, I had gone online to make a list of all the parks and playgrounds I could find in Edinburgh. There were so many. My plan was to visit each and every one, to look around, to perhaps find Ellie, just in case Neill had ventured out with her to give her some fresh air and time with other children. I didn’t hold out much hope, but it was something and it would keep my body busy and my mind occupied. It was getting dark, though, and it wouldn’t help to visit a park so late in the day. I wouldn’t be able to see the children clearly enough to know if Ellie was among them.
James texted me to let me know he had paved the way for me to
talk to two professors, so at least I had a plan.
I returned to the inn, where I met Sylvie in the dining room for dinner. Over plates of shepherd’s pie with mashed turnips, we discussed the flats she had seen during the day. She was excited about a few of them and showed me endless photos on her mobile phone, more than what she had sent me earlier in the day. I was especially interested in the shots of the Georgian we were going to see.
I wasn’t disappointed when I saw it the next morning. From the hilly street, which was narrow and cobbled, the very old, gray-stone three-story dwelling, named Bide-A-Wee House, was attached to its neighbors on either side. Each rectangular window was recessed in a large arch and the windows all sported wrought-iron plant boxes filled with greenery and winterberry boughs. I could see Sylvie watching me as I took in the breathtaking facade of the house. Through the gracious wooden front door of the flat was the faded sepia-toned beauty of what once had been a family home for a wool merchant, according to the estate agent. The first-story space echoed with high ceilings; dusty filtered light gave a golden yellow glow to the wooden floors and the ivory walls. The furniture didn’t match the period of the house, probably because Georgian furniture would have been uncomfortable and fussy. Two long dark blue leather couches faced each other, flanking a huge fireplace with a white plaster surround. Between the two couches sat a large square coffee table topped with a large bouquet of heather and several stacked books. Three armchairs, a number of occasional lamps, and faded Persian rugs covering large swaths of the hardwood floors completed the setup. It was just the sort of place Ellie would love—comfortable, open, and bright.
The agent showed us the bedrooms next, and they were perfect. One for me, one for Ellie, and one for Sylvie. I could imagine Ellie in the room I chose for her, sitting on the ruffled white bed, staring out the window at the street below.
I signed the lease papers on the spot.
Sylvie and I didn’t need much time to pack our belongings at the inn. We were moved into the flat by evening. I didn’t know how long we’d be staying, but I wanted to feel like the flat was my home away from home, so one of the first things I did was put away my clothes. Then I went shopping at the Tesco grocery store nearby, and we finally had a home-cooked meal that evening.
The next day I began my search of the city parks. My appointments with the faculty members James had spoken to weren’t until the afternoon. I would have asked Sylvie to help in the playground and park search, but I was afraid she wouldn’t recognize Ellie from a distance. Sylvie had been traveling the last time I’d taken Ellie to Scotland, late in the spring, so she hadn’t seen Ellie in person in almost a year. I e-mailed photos to Mum and Sylvie from time to time, but it wasn’t the same as seeing Ellie in person. I wanted to be absolutely sure.
Before I left the flat, I spread out a large map on the kitchen table and made a red mark wherever I found a park. I decided to start right across the street from the flat and work my way outward.
One thought nagged at the back of my mind: I should be getting in touch with Neill’s family. But after that last visit four years ago… I wasn’t sure I could manage going to see them. Besides, I knew the police were talking to them and I didn’t want to hinder the investigation. I was sure Janet and Alistair would share more with the police than they would with me.
The park across the street was large, but I was able to find the playground quickly and there were no children around. Walking to the next park on my map, I scanned the faces of passersby closely for any sign of Neill or Ellie. I spent my morning going from park to park, hoping in vain to find my little girl. I visited the faculty members early in the afternoon—another dead end. I did get a call from the police on my mobile phone, but only to be told that the mobile phone Neill had used to text me had been a throwaway. Indeed, the police had tracked its signal and found it in a rubbish bin on the street. I was encouraged by the find, though, since it indicated Neill was probably still in Edinburgh and hadn’t tried fleeing his creditors any further. However, it probably also meant that he was deep in hiding somewhere and wasn’t likely to risk taking Ellie to a public playground.
I had become more discouraged with each empty playground, but I needed to stay positive, to come up with a better plan that might help me find Ellie. I went online again that evening and looked for flats with private playgrounds and parks. There were only a few, so that narrowed my search considerably.
The next day I looked for Ellie again. The playgrounds and small parks I visited were each fenced in to ensure privacy, so my only choice was to peer over gates and through wooden slats for my daughter. I got some curious looks from people walking by, but I ignored them.
For a second day, I had no luck. I had ventured quite far afield from my flat and I walked all the way home to calm my restlessness, my feeling of dread.
When I got home, Seamus had arrived.
CHAPTER 8
I wish Sylvie had prepared me for Seamus. He was a giant of a man, with tattoos covering his thick neck and both arms. He wore a leather jacket and sported a long grizzled red beard. He was most definitely not what I expected. From what I could remember of Sylvie’s past boyfriends, they tended to be mostly nondescript, with ordinary jobs and forgettable personalities. From the look of him, no one could accuse Seamus of having no personality. From the look of him, no one would dare.
Sylvie introduced us as soon as I got home. I assumed she had told him why I was in Edinburgh, because he expressed his sympathies. And as if he knew what would impress me most, he had prepared dinner for the three of us. He was a great cook. He had prepared a pot of cock-a-leekie soup, complete with julienned prunes, and set out a slab of Dunlop cheese for nibbling. I hadn’t eaten Dunlop cheese in years. Despite his rough appearance, he was a keeper, as far as I was concerned.
Over the steaming soup, we talked about what I had done to find Ellie. Seamus wanted to know what he could do to help. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. My only hope was that the police would find some clue, some evidence that Neill had left behind somewhere.
After dinner, the three of us sat in front of the fireplace while Sylvie regaled Seamus with stories of our childhood, most of which involved great embarrassment to me. She told him of the time we switched classes and our teachers never realized the difference until it came time for Sylvie to take a test I had forgotten about. She took it and failed, and we had to tell the teachers what we had done. My punishment had been to keep the test grade.
Seamus had a deep, hearty laugh. He thought Sylvie’s stories were hilarious. Like many people who saw us together or in photos, he couldn’t believe how much we looked alike. We had switched places so many times as kids, it was a wonder we had such different personalities.
I went to bed that night feeling much less anxious about Seamus. It seemed Sylvie had finally found an interesting, likeable, useful guy.
The next several days went in much the same pattern: I would scour different areas of Edinburgh for Ellie during the day and go home to Seamus’s cooking at night. Meals were the only bright spots of my days. Seamus was a master in the kitchen, and his specialty was traditional Scottish cuisine. We had everything from colcannon to Cullen skink to venison to hairst bree. Sylvie hadn’t said how long Seamus would be staying with us, but I had the feeling if he stayed much longer I would need some new clothes in a larger size.
Seamus was an artist, so he could work anywhere. He found my job as a professor of art history endlessly fascinating and wanted to learn everything he could about my work. The three of us spent our evenings talking about art, artists, and technique. And though Sylvie found art tolerable, she joined in the conversations for Seamus’s sake. She had asked me before Seamus moved in if he could usurp part of our living room for an “art studio,” and I had reluctantly agreed. I found I enjoyed watching him work, though. His tastes ran to impressionism, portraiture, and the more traditional forms of painting and subjects, and I found that surprising. I had expect
ed him to pursue more industrial types of art.
“How did you become interested in art, Seamus?” I asked him one evening while we ate dinner.
He glanced sideways at Sylvie, then turned his attention back to me. “It’s something I’ve always liked, ever since I was a wee bairn. And I taught art for a while.”
“Oh? Did you teach in a school?”
“Nope. Just grown people who wanted to learn.”
I sensed this was a direction Seamus didn’t want to take in our conversation. I changed the subject. “Do you get to museums very often?”
“Och, yes. I go to all the museums and galleries I can. Got to get my creative juices flowin’ somehow, right?”
“I should introduce you to a new friend of mine. His name is James and he’s the collections curator at the Artists’ Museum.” I sobered, remembering James’s promise to show me around the museum with Ellie sometime.
Seamus’s eyes lit up. “That would be braw!” I returned his smile and said I would try to arrange a time for James to show Seamus around.
I called James the next morning, and he agreed to give Seamus a guided tour of the Artists’ Museum the following week—on the condition that I would join him for dinner that night. We arranged to meet at a tiny, chic bistro near the museum, and I went through the sad motions of another day spent in vain searching for Ellie. I missed her so much. By the time I met James that evening, I was dejected and losing hope. He took one look at me and suggested we ditch the restaurant and head to a neighborhood pub instead. I sighed with relief, wanting nothing more than comfort food and a dark, cozy place to sit and talk. We ate at a booth next to the window, where I could feel the warmth from the fireplace and watch the lights of nighttime Edinburgh twinkling to life. Staring out the window, I spoke to James of the things I missed most about Ellie: her high-pitched laugh, her habit of talking with her hands, the way she named inanimate objects. When I told him how her hair always smelled like honey and almonds, I couldn’t help letting out a choked sob. He put his hand over mine, waiting until I was able to compose myself. Smiling my thanks through moist eyes, I reached for a tissue and blew my nose loudly. I looked around in embarrassment, and we both laughed self-consciously, momentarily lifting me out of my black mood.
