‘Frankie,’ he says, blinking in surprise. ‘Er, what can I do for you?’
I peer over his shoulder. The front door leads straight into the open plan kitchen/living room. I haven’t been here in ages but it hasn’t changed one bit. It’s still typical clueless single-bloke territory – bare magnolia walls, ugly black leather sofa, standard issue IKEA coffee table, a recycling bin overflowing with empty pizza boxes and beer bottles.
But no Jojo.
She must be in her room.
‘Hiya. Er, I wanted to speak to Jojo if that’s all right. Is she through there?’ I nod down the corridor towards the bedrooms.
‘Frankie,’ Jojo’s dad says gently. ‘Jojo’s not here.’
‘What do you mean, she’s not here?’
‘She’s not due here until next weekend.’ He frowns, concern suddenly flooding his face. ‘Why? Did she say she was going to be here? It’s just that Helen’s been looking for her too.’
I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is freak him out. ‘I must have got confused,’ I say, styling it out as best I can. ‘Mixed up my dates. Sorry to have bothered you.’ I back out of the front door, into the communal corridor.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Is everything OK? With Jojo, I mean.’
‘Of course. Er, why do you ask?’
‘No reason. I just haven’t seen much of her lately. What with her being poorly the past few weeks …’ His voice trails off.
‘Honestly, I’m sure it’s fine,’ I say. ‘This is my cock-up. It’s the weather, I swear. It’s turned my brain to mush.’ I treat him to one of my winning smiles and it seems to do the trick, his shoulders visibly relaxing. ‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ I add. ‘Er, enjoy your yoghurt. Bye.’
I stumble downstairs and out onto the pavement, my head spinning.
Everything Jojo told me on the phone was a pack of lies.
But Jojo isn’t a liar.
She hates lies. Even silly little fibs. I remember once persuading her to ring Luca and pretend he’d won some competition to win a fancy mountain bike, and she fell apart after less than a minute, going bright red in the face and confessing. Despite my annoyance with her at the time, Jojo’s complete and utter inability to be dishonest is one of the things I like best about her.
I sit on the edge of the kerb and try to decide what to do.
My phone is going berserk with messages from people wanting to know where Jojo and I are. I reply to them all with the same message: Something came up. We’ll see you at Theo’s.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to come up with a plan. It’s no good, though. My brain feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool.
Think, Frankie, think. What stuff do you already know?
I know that Jojo disappeared from her house sometime between 8.30 and 9.30 this morning.
I know her phone has been off pretty much all day, despite the fact I’ve never once known her to run out of battery.
I know she called me not long after tea and told me she was at her dad’s.
I now know this is a big fat lie.
I call her again.
It goes straight through to voicemail (surprise, surprise). I hesitate before leaving yet another message:
‘Jojo, it’s me again. I know you’re not at your dad’s. You really need to ring me.’
I hang up.
Now what?
Just wait for her to maybe call me back? But that might never happen. After all, I’ve been calling her and leaving her messages literally all day, and apart from that one weird conversation I haven’t heard a peep out of her in response.
Perhaps I should just go to the party, forget about Jojo for twelve hours or so and deal with this in the morning.
I know I can’t, though.
Jojo is my best friend.
If she lied, she lied for a good reason. I just have absolutely no idea what this reason might be. This is what’s killing me the most right now. Because Jojo and I ordinarily tell each other everything.
And I mean everything.
From secrets to sleeping bags, there’s nothing we haven’t shared.
I know that until the age of eight, Jojo regularly wet the bed.
Jojo knows that when I was seven, I ate three of Luca’s Easter eggs and successfully blamed it on our dog, Lola (R.I.P.).
I know that Jojo once sent an anonymous home-made Valentine’s Day card to our physics teacher, Mr Ronson.
Jojo knows that I cried myself to sleep for five nights on the trot when Zayn left One Direction.
I know Jojo thinks she’s the reason her mum and Stacey can’t have a baby.
Jojo knows that my ex-boyfriend Ram’s penis bends slightly to the right.
You get the picture.
Nothing is off the agenda.
If I’m entirely honest, the whole Arts Academy episode made things a bit scratchy between us for a while, but that’s behind us now. I thought we were back on track. Or at least somewhere in the right direction. The realization that I might have been wrong burns.
Water fills my eyes. I blink it away. This is no time for tears. I need to stop being so bloody sentimental and focus.
Right. OK. So we’ve established that Jojo isn’t at her mum’s or her dad’s.
So where else might she be?
I dismiss our mutual friends. If Jojo were with them, I’d know about it. Plus, it’s rare that Jojo and I socialize without the other present. We come as a pair and always have done.
A thought hits me. Could she have a secret boyfriend? I had my suspicions she had a crush on someone earlier in the year when she started acting all cagey any time I mentioned the opposite sex, but she refused to admit to anything and eventually I stopped pushing her for details. Plus, even though Jojo can be a bit prudish about boys and sex and stuff, I just can’t imagine her not telling me if she met someone she liked, unless maybe it was someone totally inappropriate.
Like someone really old and disgusting.
An image of Mr Ronson and his unkempt beard jumps into my head.
I thought Jojo’s crush on him died the day he played the cat in Dick Whittington in the sixth form and staff pantomime two Christmases ago, dressed in nothing but a black body stocking. I remember the expression on her face as he crawled about the stage, his arse in the air – the mixture of horror and disappointment and sheer embarrassment etched all over her features.
But that was a while ago now. What if her crush had been reignited? And what if he was into it too?
No.
NO.
I’m being ridiculous.
Jojo has not run off with Mr Ronson. Plus, didn’t he get married recently? I seem to remember Bex or Ella or someone tracking down his wife on Facebook and trawling through the honeymoon album she’d uploaded, chortling over pictures of a loved-up and rather sunburned Mr Ronson wearing Speedos on the beach, sipping a piña colada.
I reject the possibility of a secret boyfriend and take out my phone, double-checking Jojo’s various social media profiles for clues. My search gleans very little. Jojo’s never really been much of an online sharer and there’s been nothing new for over three weeks now. The last thing she posted was on 27 July via Instagram – a photo of her grandma’s dog, Pickle, fresh from the dog groomers.
I’m about to close the app when my eyes snag on something.
The location above the photo of Pickle.
Newfield. Our home town.
Quickly, I scroll through my apps until I find the one I’m looking for.
Find Your Friends.
Jojo and I downloaded it years ago, when we both got our first ever smartphones for Christmas. It’s this app that lets you see where your friends are. We used it all the time at first. Even though I generally knew where Jojo was and what she was up to at any given time, there was something comforting about being able to see it in the form of a pulsating blue dot on the screen confirming her exact location. I’m not sure when I stopped using it. Perhaps when I got together with Ram a
nd felt guilty about not being as available as I once was. Not that Jojo ever made a fuss or indicated she felt neglected in any way. But then, that’s Jojo for you.
I open the app and pray that Jojo hasn’t deleted it. I select the ‘Friend Finder’ function and wait.
Jojo444 is offline.
Shit. Of course. The app only works if the person you’re looking for has their phone switched on.
A second alert flashes up on the screen.
Would you like to see Jojo444’s last known location?
I press ‘yes’ and hold my breath. It’s all coming back to me now. If you’re offline, the app saves your most recent location.
The map is taking ages to load.
Hurry, hurry.
Finally it appears, Jojo’s location as of 18:49, indicated by a non-pulsating version of that familiar blue dot.
She’s on Princes Way.
Princes Way?
Is that in Newfield? If it is, I’ve never heard of it.
I zoom out a little, my eyes searching for familiar road names or landmarks.
Nothing springs out at me.
That’s when I see a train station symbol. I zoom back in.
Swindon station.
I frown.
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of Swindon, but I have no idea where it is. I keep zooming out until I can make sense of where it is in relation to Newfield.
It’s miles away.
My mind racing, I switch to the internet and type Princes Way, Swindon into Google Street View. It’s a pretty bleak sight – mostly grey office buildings. I can’t for the life of me think why Jojo might be there.
Then I see it.
A popular chain hotel, its sign aglow.
I go back to the app.
Boom! The locations match exactly.
I’ve found her.
I just have absolutely no idea why she might be there. Zero.
I think back to our telephone conversation. Was it really just an hour ago? Already the exact content is fading from my memory.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember what she said, what I said, how she sounded.
That’s when it comes back to me.
A baby. I heard a baby crying.
Jojo said it was the TV.
It didn’t sound like the TV, though. It sounded like it was right there in the room with her, right next to the phone even. I was about to say that, I remember now, but I didn’t get the chance because that’s when she hung up, and in my annoyance and belief that she was where she said she was, I totally forgot about it.
Hurriedly, I put everything together.
Jojo left the house sometime between 8.30 and 9.30 a.m.
Olivia Sinclair was taken around 9.15 a.m.
Jojo hasn’t been seen since. Neither has Olivia.
Jojo has lied about where she is, not only to me, but to her mum too.
Jojo has a baby with her.
My heart is galloping like crazy now.
Because, taking everything into consideration, there’s only one possible explanation here.
Jojo, my best friend in the entire world, has stolen a baby.
Chapter 7
Oh God.
Oh God.
OH GOD.
I’m officially freaking out.
No.
NO.
I do not have time for this. I need to stop panicking and make a plan but my brain and body are refusing to cooperate. I know I have to get it together, though. I’m absolutely no good to Jojo flapping about like this. I need to focus. Unfortunately, focusing has never been one of my strengths.
I force myself to sit back down on the kerb and with trembling fingers type ‘Olivia Sinclair’ into Google.
And there it is. The same cherubic picture I saw on the news earlier.
I scan the article:
No confirmed sightings … police following several leads … public urged to come forward, etc. etc.
No mention of Swindon, but surely it’s only a matter of time. Jojo looks young for her age, certainly too young to be a mother. People would notice her. She’ll be on CCTV. She may have escaped it at the petrol station but there’s no way she could have avoided it on the trip to Swindon – it’s bloody miles away. And what is the statistic? That there’s one camera for every ten people? Or is the other way round? Either way, it’s a lot of cameras and Jojo and Olivia can’t possibly have escaped them all.
I wonder what the punishment is for kidnapping a baby.
I Google it.
Up to fourteen years in prison.
How old will Jojo be in fourteen years? Thirty.
Ancient.
I think of all the things she’ll miss. All the birthdays and milestones and rites of passage.
My eyes sting with panicky tears.
I have to get to her before the police do.
I look up train times to Swindon. The next train is at 20:22, changing in London.
I take a look at the prices. ‘How much?’ I gasp out loud. I don’t need to check my bank balance to know I have nowhere near that amount at my disposal.
Maybe I can get a coach. I look up timetables but there’s nothing until tomorrow morning and it calls at so many places in-between I wouldn’t arrive in Swindon until mid-afternoon, by which time Jojo might have left the hotel and gone God knows where. I can’t possibly leave it until then. I need to get there tonight, no matter what.
I need someone with a car.
Someone discreet I can trust.
Someone who won’t insist we go to the police or get adults involved.
But who?
None of my mates are old enough to drive.
Then a photo pops into my head.
I saw it on Instagram just after Easter. I remember feeling a bit miffed by the caption – ‘meet the new love of my life’ – so much so I took a screenshot and sent it to Jojo, asking her if I had a right to be kind of gutted that I’d been so easily replaced by a heap of metal.
The photo was of my ex-boyfriend, Ram, a proud smile on his face, standing in front of a shiny black car.
I grab my bag and break into a run.
I’m nervous walking up Ram’s front path. I don’t know why. It’s not like I haven’t seen him since we broke up. Newfield isn’t massive and we’ve crossed paths a couple of times and it’s always been fine – a little awkward perhaps, but basically fine. This is different, though. This is his territory. And even though it was always a running joke that I got on better with Ram’s mum and sisters than I did with him half the time, I’m still uneasy about knocking on their door unannounced. Unlike Ram, I haven’t seen any of them since before we broke up and I have no idea how they feel about me all these months later. Certainly, I’m now regretting my decision to ceremoniously delete his number earlier this year. Calling him would have been so much simpler (not to mention quicker).
All the windows are open so there’s definitely someone in.
I take a deep breath and ring the bell.
Ram’s mum, Cheryl, answers; spotting me, she lets out a gasp of delight. My chest floods with relief.
‘Frankie!’ she says. ‘What a gorgeous surprise. Come in, come in.’
Ram and I may have been doomed, but Cheryl and I liked one another from the start.
I let her usher me inside. Everything is exactly how I remember it, from the baby pictures of Ram and his two sisters on the sideboard, to the wonky shoe rack at the bottom of the stairs.
I’ve always loved Ram’s house. It’s not especially fancy or anything, just a narrow little terrace on an entirely ordinary street, but inside it’s as cosy and welcoming as anything. Unlike my house, which is all very beige and cream and brown (‘tasteful’, according to my mum), Ram’s house is a riot of colour. The living room, for example, is a symphony of reds and oranges, pinks and purples, from the cushions and throws on the sofa, to the framed posters on the wall and the shaggy circular rug in the centre of the floor.
‘It reminds m
e of a sunset,’ I remember telling Cheryl the first time I saw it.
‘That’s exactly what I was going for, Frankie,’ she replied happily, before turning to Ram and saying, ‘I like this one,’ her eyes shining with approval.
‘Now, let me get you a nice cold drink,’ Cheryl says. ‘I’ve got some of that posh elderflower cordial stuff in. I wasn’t sure I’d like it, but I tell you what, it goes lovely with fizzy water, especially on a day like today.’
‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Cheryl totters towards the kitchen, her slippers clacking against the laminate flooring. Cheryl is the only person I know who wears slippers with a heel – satin pink mules trimmed with marabou feathers, a bit like the sort of the thing a film star from the 1950s might wear. Then again, she’s glamorous full stop. Even today, probably the hottest of the year so far, she’s in full make-up. I suspect most of my make-up slid off my face within moments of my leaving the house, but Cheryl’s is immaculate. Even her double set of false eyelashes is refusing to wilt.
I follow her, lingering for a moment outside the living room. The door is ajar. On the mantelpiece, the shrine to Ram’s dad sits as proudly as ever. Mr Jandu died in a car accident when Ram was fourteen, Laleh was nine and Roxy just four. In all the pictures, he’s model handsome. The photos of him as a young teenager in Iran look uncannily like Ram. They have the same shock of black hair and intense gaze, the same loose-limbed ease, the same quietly devastating smile.
‘Ice?’ Cheryl calls from the kitchen. ‘Or is that a silly question.’
‘Yes please,’ I say, scurrying after her.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ Cheryl asks, setting my drink (complete with novelty ice cubes, a cocktail umbrella and a slice of orange) down in front of me on the breakfast bar. ‘Not that there has to be a reason for your visit,’ she adds quickly. ‘You’re welcome to drop in whenever you like.’
I take a quick sip. ‘Um, I was just wondering if Ram was about actually?’ I ask. ‘I, er, don’t seem to have his number in my phone for some reason.’
First Day of My Life Page 4
