S is for Stranger

by Louise Stone

  When we turned the corner to home, I spotted dozens of vans outside and journalists getting themselves ready in front of cameras, photographers snapping pictures of the house and garden. Some of my neighbours had gathered on one corner of the street and I saw my neighbour opposite talking in earnest to a journalist.

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Fiona said. ‘I need you to remember not to say anything. If you do, just state “no comment” and that’s it.’ She killed the engine and journalists and camera crew ran toward the car, their faces, notebooks and lenses up against the glass.

  Fiona got out first. ‘Move aside, guys.’

  She opened my door and once I was out, kept her arm firmly around me as we made our way up the path to my house.

  ‘Ms Fraiser, tell me about your time in the Priory.’

  ‘Ms Fraiser,’ someone else called over, ‘do you know where your daughter is?’

  ‘Ms Fraiser, your husband denies any knowledge of the fairground, is this true?’

  My eyes stung with tears and I was shaking uncontrollably as Fiona guided me indoors. It took any last ounce of self-control I had to not shout at them, tell them they were looking at the whole thing from the wrong angle. What was more important? My issues with drink or finding my little girl?

  Once inside, Fiona slammed the door shut and I collapsed against it, my breathing erratic. I rapped the back of the door three times with my fist and focused on steadying my breathing.

  Fiona led me through to the kitchen. ‘You did well. It’s horrible, I know. I’ve seen it before. They’re like a bunch of bloody hounds.’

  ‘DI Ward did warn me but I had no idea how awful it would be.’ I paused, my hands still unsteady. ‘I think I’m going to go upstairs for a lie down.’

  Once upstairs, in the privacy of my own room, I sat on the bedroom floor, holding the small passport photo of Amy and I scanned the news headlines online. I openly sobbed at the predictability of it all. Article after article outlining me as an unfit mother, and that Amy had been in my sole care, that a recovering alcoholic was not fit to look after her child. Then, the one that twisted my gut: Father Denies Knowledge of Being at Fairground. But, most sickening, most crushing were the endless comments in response to the articles from people, normal people, as they were swept along the tide of sensationalism.

  Ruth07: Some women don’t deserve children. I hope they find the child and lock the mother up for life.

  AndyK: She’s clearly deluded. Not fit mother.

  Daisy: Let’s hope the girl’s not dead because then she’d be a murderer as well.

  Dave: Bit odd the parents not agreeing on where they were. If you ask me, the woman’s mental. Unfit mother.

  My hands shook uncontrollably as I let the laptop slide from my lap, another sob escaping my throat.

  I looked at the photo: I had failed my daughter. That’s what everyone now thought. That’s what I was beginning to think. Amy’s auburn hair, similar to mine, wild with curls. Her cheeks were rosy and plump. If I closed my eyes, I could smell her shampoo and hear her laugh; the image was so vivid, I put my hands out to touch her.

  ‘Sophie? Where are you?’

  The front door shut and I heard Oliver pounding up the stairs. He entered the room, a large duffel bag over his shoulder which he let fall to the floor before sitting next to me on the carpet. He put his arm around my shoulders and I tilted my head into the crook of his neck.

  ‘You staying?’ I asked, pointing at his bag.

  ‘If you want me.’ He laced his hand through mine. ‘What happened at the station?’

  ‘DI Ward found the woman I was talking about, on the CCTV footage. Not sure it gets us any further, though.’

  ‘No,’ he answered simply, and a rift of silence opened up between us. ‘I’ve bought us some lunch. Do you want me to go down and make something?’ He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

  ‘You’ve seen the headlines?’

  He nodded grimly. ‘Yes, but people will forget. When Amy’s found and Paul’s revealed for what he is, they will forget.’ He looked down at me. ‘Eat something?’

  ‘I can’t eat.’

  ‘Sophie, you have to eat. You need to keep your strength up.’

  I nodded and Oliver lifted himself off the floor. I grabbed his arm. ‘Oliver, will you help me?’

  ‘Of course I will, I told you that last night. Sophie, the police will find her.’ His certainty sent a pain through my heart.

  ‘No, I mean will you help me? I don’t think I can sit around waiting for the police to find Amy.’ I spoke fast. ‘I can’t trust anybody because I don’t think they trust me. Except Darren. Maybe Darren believes me.’

  Oliver sat back down with a thud. ‘You don’t trust the police?’ He looked at me, bewildered. ‘So …’

  ‘When I talk to the detective she appears less and less convinced by what I’m saying, how can I spend so much time trying to persuade the very people who are meant to be looking for Amy?’ I laughed a brittle laugh. ‘She’ll be locking me up soon, giving me meds.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘So, I need to find Amy. Alone.’ I paused. ‘Or with you. If you’ll help me.’

  ‘But what are you going to do?’

  I noted the singular and sighed. ‘You’ve seen the papers. If people are not on my side, what can I do? I can’t sit around, letting them all circle me like prey.’

  He started to move off.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’

  ‘There’s not much to say.’ He didn’t look around. ‘If you leave, you’ll make yourself look even more guilty.’

  His words ran through my heart like a sharpened blade.

  ‘Oliver, please.’

  He turned, tears in his eyes. ‘Just give me some time, OK?’ He left and padded down the stairs.

  I stared at the spot where Oliver had just been sitting. What had I expected? That Oliver would take me in his arms and tell me it was all going to be OK, that he would become a fugitive with me, the woman the nation hated? I curled up on the cream woollen carpet and gave in to the loneliness. In reality, I had been alone for years: my daughter lived with her father; I had few friends, no boyfriends.

  The sound of my mobile cut through my thoughts: it was Fiona. She’d be back in an hour or so. How was I holding up? She was worried about me. I assured her I was fine and hung up.

  It had suddenly occurred to me, lying there, that I hadn’t checked the house thoroughly; what if it was bugged? What if someone was watching me in my own home? I stood, any tiredness quickly dissolving. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? I needed to be sure that the house was safe from spies. My mind was spinning with possibilities: the police might not trust me, Paul might have planted something in the house. I knew it didn’t sound a sane concept but then my daughter going missing and her own father denying it was, to me, equally irrational.

  I started in the bedroom, and moved furniture aside, checked the corners of the room and under the bed. Once I had finished in there, I did the same throughout the whole of the upstairs. Minutes later, I was downstairs.

  ‘Sophie? What on earth are you doing?’ Oliver emerged from the kitchen.

  ‘I need to check the rooms,’ I answered breathlessly; there was no time to explain now. In my heart, I knew I had to get rid of Oliver if he wasn’t going to help me. A sickening thought spun through my head: what if Oliver was helping someone else? He had come back into my life so suddenly and he seemed reluctant to assist me.

  He pinned himself against the wall as I blustered past. ‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ He had followed me into the kitchen.

  ‘Cameras. Listening devices. What if this place is bugged?’

  ‘Seriously?’ Oliver gave a small shake to his head. I shot him a look.

  ‘Seriously. I’ve checked upstairs so far …’ I scratched my head. ‘Ah! The attic.’

  I ran up the stairs two at a time and folded out th
e ladder in order to climb into the attic space. Once I was inside the fusty and dark room, I found the torch I kept up there and flicked it on, shining the light over the boxes of Amy’s school reports, pictures, her old baby clothes, piles and piles of books. I felt around the edge of the small window, in case I was missing something with such limited light. Nothing.

  Exhausted and dejected, I sat down on a box with a thud. From my position, I had a bird’s-eye view of the road below. Kate wandered about her garden, picking out the odd weed. A delivery van pulled up a few houses away and a woman with a pushchair walked past. I looked longingly after that woman. In my head, I rewound the years, and I was there again, pushing Amy toward home, smiling at her over the top of the handlebar whilst she giggled happily at the funny face I pulled.

  My gaze left the woman who had now rounded the corner and fell on the bins outside. I shot up, my eyes wide with disbelief. Seconds later, I was sprinting down the stairs, past Oliver prepping food in the kitchen and I flew out the front door. I ran over to the bins and plucked the lid off the first one, chucking it on the ground.

  I gasped, frozen to the spot. My breathing had turned ragged, the ringing had started up in my head, piercing my thoughts. Oliver’s hand was on my shoulder and no sooner had I fully comprehended what I was looking at, the world went black.

  When I awoke, I found myself staring at Fiona, still lying on the grass. Her face was flooded with concern and she ordered Oliver to help me inside and settle me on the sofa.

  ‘What about the …’ I pointed at the bins.

  Fiona frowned. ‘DI Ward is on her way.’

  I nodded numbly.

  ‘Are they …?’ She didn’t finish her sentence.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, my voice unsteady, ‘Amy’s clothes.’

  I looked back over my shoulder as Oliver led me inside. My heart surged with love at the sight of Amy’s pink duffel coat. But then, just as quickly, it plummeted into the depths of my stomach: I wanted to know what it meant. Where was Amy? Was she alive? Why would someone put Amy’s clothes in my bin?

  Unless whoever had Amy wasn’t just happy with that, they wanted to enjoy the ride too. What better way than to make me look guilty after the press had started to hunt me down than to put evidence of Amy’s whereabouts on my doorstep? Make out I would kidnap my own daughter.

  CHAPTER 12

  Forensics had just finished bagging up the clothes. Fiona had made me a third cup of tea and, I’m not sure if it was just my imagination, they were also getting increasingly sweeter.

  She sat opposite me now and had on a full set of leathers. There was something about the combination of her clothing and the fact that her feet couldn’t quite reach the floor when sitting on one of the dining room chairs, that didn’t match up.

  ‘You into motorbikes?’ I asked and realised I was making small talk again; it was a nervous habit, a way of taking the spotlight off me.

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed, pointing to the outfit, ‘I wouldn’t wear these out of choice.’

  A small giggle erupted and I concentrated desperately on pushing the laughter bubbling up inside of me back down. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to laugh; no, quite the opposite, but laughter would easily bleed into hysteria.

  ‘Sophie,’ Fiona said, more seriously now, ‘how are you holding up?’

  ‘Great,’ I lied, forcing a smile.

  ‘Sophie.’

  I frowned, my lower lip quaking. ‘Not great. And a bit sick of all this.’ I indicated the forensic team.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Fiona said gently, ‘I understand. No one likes to feel like they’re constantly being watched over.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, thinking back to the clothes, ‘no one does.’

  ‘Are you OK, Sophie?’

  ‘What do you think it means? The clothes in the bin?’ I took a sip of tea; this cup was already cold but it gave me something to do.

  ‘It’s not my place to answer that but …’ She started and stopped, her gaze moving to the figure entering the room.

  ‘Sophie.’ It was DI Ward. She grabbed another dining room chair and sat almost equidistant from Fiona and myself: the perfect triangle. ‘We’ve been over what happened. You saw the pink coat from the attic window and went outside to check it out for yourself.’ She scrutinised her notebook.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What were you doing in the attic?’

  I pressed my lips tightly together before speaking. ‘I wanted to find something of Amy’s,’ I lied. ‘A picture she made me recently. She gave it to me last time I saw her.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘And you had already put it in the attic?’ Her tone sounded unconvinced.

  ‘Yes.’ I shrugged, my nonchalance hopefully masking my sweaty palms and drumming heartbeat.

  ‘Why do you think Amy’s clothes were in your bin?’

  ‘Someone’s trying to set me up,’ I answered simply.

  ‘Set you up?’ She sucked on the end of her pen. ‘You mean the woman from the fair?’

  I felt as if we were raking over familiar territory. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, well, as you know, forensics have taken the items and will examine them.’ She clicked the pen a couple of times whilst she gathered her thoughts. ‘Is Oliver Dyers here?’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘In the kitchen, why?’

  ‘Just got a couple of questions for him.’ She smiled and left.

  Fiona tried to stifle a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Don’t be.’ I sat back in the sofa. ‘I know how you feel.’ Grabbing a cushion, I placed it on my lap and started to smooth over its cover. ‘You know DI Ward …’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Is she good?’

  Fiona grinned. ‘Yes. The best.’

  I cocked my head to one side. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ She whispered now, ‘Yeah, she can be a bit, you know, abrasive but that woman’s good. Really good.’

  I needed to know more. ‘OK, but she doesn’t trust me, does she?’

  Fiona looked surprised. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Stuff she says, her body language around me. Everything, really.’ I nodded toward her. ‘She’s not as understanding as you.’

  Fiona blushed. ‘She’s just different that’s all. She’s not good at not knowing the facts.’

  I smiled despite myself. ‘Must be hell in her job then.’

  She grinned. ‘Yeah but makes her work damned fast.’ Her face grew sober. ‘She’ll find Amy.’

  I nodded tiredly. ‘I need to believe that.’

  After a while, Oliver reappeared in the doorway to the living room and I heard the front door slam shut.

  ‘All OK in here?’ he asked.

  Fiona, ever the sensitive one, felt the tension and excused herself. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. More tea, anyone?’

  I smiled gratefully. ‘Not for me, but thanks.’

  Oliver gazed tenderly at me. ‘I’m sorry for questioning you earlier. It’s just what you’re saying about not trusting the police.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘Just a lot to take in, you know?’

  ‘I know. I’m the one who should be apologising.’ I looked at him steadily and whispered, so Fiona couldn’t hear, ‘I just needed you to understand why I’m finding it hard to trust the police. I really do believe I need to find Amy myself.’

  ‘But don’t you think you might be putting yourself in danger?’

  ‘Oliver, my daughter is out there somewhere and I need to find her.’ I looked around the room. ‘I don’t even know if this room is bugged. What if she’s been listening in this whole time? What then?’

  ‘Who is she?’

  I reached out to him, he moved closer, and I took his hand. ‘I’m trusting you to keep this secret. I understand if you feel you can’t help but I needed you to know what’s going on.’

  He smiled, his eyes watering. ‘You’re as stubborn as the day I met you. God help me.’

  I was about to answer
, when the phone rang. It was Zander, my boss; he had seen me on the news.

  ‘Zander, I told you I’m fine.’

  ‘How can you be fine, Sophie? When I turn on the news and I see all this, well, I was …’ I sensed he was trying to grab at a word that wouldn’t send me reeling. ‘Shocked.’ He decided on shocked. It sounded very English, upper class and entirely ridiculous. A local mugging would be shocking, and this was bigger than that.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied honestly. ‘It is shocking to me too.’ I peeked out the curtain and a dozen or so flashbulbs went off in reply.

  He talked hurriedly and I thought I picked up on a hint of nervous excitement in his voice.

  ‘Zander, do you mind if I phone you back another time?’

  The six o’clock news had used an old photo of Amy and Paul taken last year. DI Ward had given them the photo. A separate and more recent one of me at a legal awards ceremony, downloaded off the Internet, stood alongside it.

  ‘What can I do?’ Zander continued, ignoring my obvious plea for him to leave me alone. ‘I mean they’re just hounding you, the press.’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t do anything, Zander, thank you. I won’t be in to work for a while. Until I find Amy.’ My voice caught. ‘If I find Amy.’

  ‘When you find Amy. Of course, of course.’ I let the silence hang awkwardly between us, my patience wearing thin. Zander finally said, ‘Right, well …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let me know if I can do anything for you. You’re like family to me, you know?’

  ‘Sure.’ I willed him to hang up. ‘Thanks.’

  I pushed the phone back in its cradle and slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. It had been a long day.

  ‘You OK?’ Oliver appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

  ‘My boss.’

  ‘Sounded like he was pretty concerned.’

  ‘For his company’s reputation.’ I wasn’t stupid, I knew why Zander had been phoning; worried clients were going to fall by the wayside overnight.

  Fiona coughed to let us know she was returning.

  ‘Guys,’ she smiled at both of us, ‘I’m going to head off but I’ll be back tomorrow to take you to the next press conference, OK?’