Missing Molly, a true crime podcast delivered to you by the South Hackney Herald.
“Catchy,” Vivian says.
“Yeah well, Mike wrote it.”
“Figures.”
The words are dancing in front of my eyes. All I can think is that he’s going to find me now. This podcast is going to lead him straight to me.
I’m going to die.
Twelve years ago, Molly Forster disappeared from Whitbrook—
I point to the text. “Technically, it’s eleven. You’ve got twelve here.”
They look at each other before Vivian slaps me on the shoulder. “Well done! So you have been paying attention. I told you it was a good idea to get Rach involved,” she says to Chris.
Vivian looks like a kid who’s been told she was getting a big red bicycle for Christmas. She puts her arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “We’ll be a team, like Thelma and Louise!”
“God help us all,” Chris mutters.
That’s Chris’s nickname for us. Thelma and Louise. He says it’s because we’re as thick as thieves. I didn’t know the reference so I had to look it up. It’s an old movie about two friends who go away on a trip together and end up dead.
“Anyway, back to the article,” Vivian says, lifting her arm. “It doesn’t matter. It’ll be twelve years in November. Close enough.”
There’s a small sound that comes out of me then. It’s because I’m in pain, real pain, but Chris interprets as lack of confidence in the project.
“Come on, Rachel, it can’t be that hard. Everyone’s doing a podcast these days. You’ll figure it out.”
I’ve lost, again. I know that, so I begin to rearrange my face from crushed to excited and say, “Well, that’s amazing! I can’t wait! When are we putting out the first episode again?”
“Friday,” Vivian says.
“This week? Surely not!” I quickly scan the article, looking for the confirmation.
“With Jacob leaving we’re a bit behind, I won’t lie to you,” Chris says. “He was going to line up some interviews with the locals and that hasn’t happened because frankly, no one’s had the time.”
I nod gravely. “So we’re already behind schedule?”
“You might need to put in some extra time, is that okay with you?” Chris asks.
“Of course. Happy to. When do we start?”
“We already have.” They both stand. “Come and see the recording studio.”
Nine
We have a storage room in the office. It’s next to the kitchen area, where the electric meter is. It doesn’t have any windows. Anything that is no longer of any use gets dumped in here, along with the vacuum cleaner. Once in a while we’ll do a big cleanup. Last time I checked, the room contained boxes of old newspapers, a printer that no longer printed anything, and a couple of desk lamps.
Vivian opens the door with a flourish. I gasp. It’s unrecognisable. There’s a small desk, with a microphone on a stand and a pair of headphones next to it. There’s a computer screen too, but the most bizarre sight is the padded material on the walls.
“So, what do you think?" Vivian asks. She leans into my ear and whispers. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. We finished it yesterday.” She looks at Chris.
“You did this? Over the weekend?” My voice sounds softer in here, too quiet almost.
“Jacob did most of it,” Chris says behind me. “He started it anyway. Vivian and I put the finishing touches.”
How come I didn’t know? But why should I have known? I was on holiday. And anyway, I am a part-time bookkeeper slash admin person. Until today, apparently.
“Can we afford it? I only finished the budget on Friday.”
“It was donated,” Vivian says.
“By who?”
“Jacob. It’s his old equipment.”
“Won’t he want it back now?”
“Don’t worry about that, Rachel,” Chris says.
Vivian sits down and swivels in the chair. She’s like a child, grinning. She lifts the bulky headphones and puts them on her head. She pulls the desk mic closer to her, puts on her radio voice, and says, “Good evening, everyone, my name is Vivian Brown, and you’re listening to Missing Molly.”
“You can’t say evening, you don’t know when they’ll be listening to it.” I hadn’t meant to sound so curt, it just came out that way. She makes a face. “Thanks, Sherlock. I was just pretending.”
“So, you see here, the mic is being fed into that rack over there,” Chris says, oblivious as always to what is going on around him. An odd quality for someone who runs a newspaper. “It’s connected somehow to this computer here, or so I was told. You can take a look later, Rach. But it should be good quality, good enough for our purposes.”
Maybe I could sabotage something here. Pretend Jacob didn’t really know what he was doing with all those cables, and this setup was never going to work. But what would be the point? That would simply delay the inevitable.
“Anyway, Rach, we just wanted to bring you up to speed,” Chris says, moving back out of the room. Vivian is put out, I can tell from the way she’s avoiding my gaze. I’ve seen her face light up with excitement. It might not be the job she’s dreamed about, but it’s the closest she’s ever come to it so far, and yet I’m being a complete buzzkill. She thought I would be thrilled, but instead I have found fault with everything.
I wish I could tell her. This podcast is going to get me killed, let’s not do it please?
“Okay,” I say, “it’s great. Great news. I’ll get right on it.” Chris is standing against the open door, I assume he means to be polite, ladies first, that sort of thing. But as I walk past him and into the corridor, Chris goes back inside. He has one hand on the door handle, and says, “Vivian and I are having a production meeting, so feel free to get on with the rest. Maybe do some research on the technical side of things. Thanks, Rach.”
I put my palm against the door. “A production meeting?”
“Yeah, we don’t have much time, so we need to finalise the script asap.” Vivian claps her hands. “I love saying that!”
Chris nods in my direction. “So, if you don’t mind, I’ve got truckloads of work to do, so let’s get this done, Vivian. Rachel?”
Finalise the script?
“Can I stay? Maybe I can help?” I say.
There’s a beat where Chris looks to Vivian, and she shrugs. “Sure! Why not? Let’s just get to it.”
I walk back inside the small, stifling room.
Ten
I watch them, sitting at the desk. Vivian is doing something on the computer. I am standing behind them, leaning against the door, grateful for the dim light in here. They can’t see me grinding my jaw.
Do they really think they’re going to find me? How? I’ve never setup any social media accounts, not even in my new name. There are no websites out there that are looking for me, no banners screaming ‘Have you seen Molly Forster?’ partly because my entire family was wiped out that night, so there’s no one left to care. Also, Edward Hennessy, Chief Constable in Whitbrook, has always maintained the investigation into my disappearance is ongoing, and best handled by the police. He is on record as saying that websites and amateur sleuths will do more damage than good, and they should leave it to the professionals.
I wonder how he’ll feel about the podcast. Does he know? Has he picked up on the small item in the Metro? Probably not. But he’ll hear about it, and he won’t be pleased. Well, that makes two of us.
“We’re fine for the first episode,” Chris is saying. “Even the first two episodes, because they’re going to be recap, mostly. The family murders, what happened to Molly, background on the killer, etc. etc.”
Vivian is making noises of assent. She’s typing something on the computer, then she says, “I know Jacob hasn’t had any luck lining up some good interviews, because the town has closed ranks on us. I made some calls, but I haven’t been able to access anything either. Nothing from the school, for example. No
one wants to talk to us. I think they’re worried we’ll make them look bad and they need the tourists. But we have this.”
Vivian is fiddling around with the mouse and I am unprepared for what happens next. I am staring at an old clip of Channel Four news. Chief Constable Hennessy’s voice fills the room.
“We are pleased to report the arrest of a Mr Dennis Dawson in conjunction with the Forster family murders. Mr Dawson was known to the family, he was employed by Mr Forster as their regular gardener, he had access, and a motive. Without going into too much details, we want to reassure our community that this attack was not a random occurrence, the reasons for which I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time.”
This scene, almost twelve years later, has as much power upon me as it did when I first saw it. I can taste the bile rising up, I don’t know if it’s for the tragedy of the situation, or because back then, my reaction to it almost cost me my life.
Vivian pauses the video and turns to Chris. “Generally speaking, all we have right now is footage of old news items, like that one.
The room feels way too small. I feel for the door handle behind me and open it a crack, hoping for some air.
“Can I see the rest?” Chris asks.
Vivian resumes the video.
“We are appealing to the public to help us find young Molly Forster, who escaped from the residence while this individual was committing this atrocity upon the family. Our priority is to find young Molly and keep her safe. If you see her, or if you have any information as to her whereabouts, please contact the police immediately.”
A wave of nausea engulfs me. Then it happens.
I am back there, in the old abandoned train station. It’s cold. I’m in shock, and I’m terrified.
I don’t know how long I’d been crouched there when I heard footsteps outside, on the gravel. I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned into my knees to muffle the scream. Then I heard him, whispering. “Molly, are you there?”
I bolted outside and saw his silhouette near the door. His hand reached out to me, and I felt the tip of his fingers brush my shoulder just as I turned around and ran. I should have gone to the police station then, but all I could think of was to get away from him as I heard his ragged breath behind me.
I ran towards the river, to get away from the lights. Then I ran along the bank, ignoring the ferns and branches that cut and grazed my shins, until I reached the old bridge.
They called it the upside-down bridge, because the steel truss was built under the timber deck and railings. It was dark, a moonless night, I ran across and I almost smashed myself against the heavy barrier near the other end. My stomach lurched, and I lost my breath. I had forgotten that the bridge was closed. The abutment at that end had been damaged in the storm and part of the timber deck had collapsed.
“Molly…” he sang out, behind me, his voice hoarse as he took in raspy breaths. I turned, my legs wobbling under me. He was halfway down the deck, leaning forward, his hands above his knees to support himself. I could hear him catching his breath. Then he stood tall again and I turned to climb over the metal structure that had been erected there, but I couldn’t. It was too high and I didn’t have the strength. I screamed and screamed and in a flash he was almost level with me, his arm outstretched to grab me and I jumped in the river, praying that I wouldn’t hit the rocks I knew were protruding below.
I must have fainted in the freezing water and I didn’t know how much time had passed when I came to, wedged against tree roots a few hundred feet from the bridge. There was silence all around me, not even his footsteps, nothing. I managed to pull myself up the river bank, my clothes heavy with water and mud. I could see the outline of the bridge in the distance but I couldn’t see him. I made my way back, shaking with terror and cold and when I finally ran inside the police station, pushing hard against the door, almost falling on the tile floor, there was only Chief Constable Edward Hennessy.
“Oh my God, Molly? We’ve been looking all over for you! Molly, sweetheart, are you all right?”
“Help me!” I said, sobbing. “He’s coming for me!”
“Rachel?” Vivian's voice brings me back to the present. I blink a few times, aware they’re waiting for me to say something.
“Sorry, what did you say?” I ask, shaking the vision out of my mind’s eye.
“Do you need any help to get started? With your research?” Vivian says.
“No, I’ll be fine.” I open the door to the studio. I need some air.
Eleven
“What prompted you to do that, Rachel?” Barbara asks.
I give Barbara my most incredulous stare. She’s my psychiatrist—or my shrink as Vivian likes to call her— and the NHS pays Barbara lots of money so that she can tell me things I already know. You suffer from agoraphobia, an anxiety disorder. It’s triggered by environments where you feel unsafe, or situations where you feel you can’t get away easily.
It’s bridges actually, although I’m not crazy about tunnels either.
I had a breakdown after Gracie was born. It was pretty bad so Matt was adamant. Get help, he said. It doesn’t matter if it’s expensive, we can afford it. I can always work more shifts, he said. We can never go through this again, Rach, he said.
Poor Matt. It wasn’t just him that had insisted. Social Services made it a condition for the first twelve months. Now I keep coming anyway.
“I want to get better. I thought that was self-evident,” I tell Barbara.
She nods. “But that’s what we’re doing here, every week. And you’re making progress, Rachel.”
I make a sarcastic noise. “It doesn’t feel like it. And I figured that if I just practised doing it, I could teach myself to do it.” Which is a lie. I haven’t practised attempting to cross a bridge exactly, not like every day. Just once or twice and then I sort of forgot to. It didn’t bother me that much anymore, that I can’t cross a bridge on foot. I can cross a bridge if I’m on a bus. I can drive across a bridge. I don’t like it much, but I can do it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
She raises her eyebrows. “We could have discussed it, I could have helped you.”
“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, would it.” I say this a little petulantly. I don’t feel like being scolded for attempting to heal myself.
“Why now?” she asks, after a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been coming here for over two years for treatment, and I never heard you say you wanted to overcome this particular aspect of your phobia.”
I nod.
“So why now?”
I look outside the window. The sky is pale grey, almost white. Small diagonal drops of rain land on the window.
“I need to get better. That’s all.”
I need to protect my daughter.
“Okay.” She makes a note. “What happened after the panic attack? How did you get out of it?”
“I called a friend.”
I can’t help it, the tears well up and I can’t speak for a while. She hands me a box of tissues. I’ve been crying ever since I went home last night. Matt couldn’t get me to tell him what was wrong.
I blow my nose.
“Why are you upset, Rachel?”
“I’m frightened,” I whisper.
“Why?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be free.”
Twelve
Missing Molly - Episode 1 - Transcript
[Music]
Vivian: Every year, thousands of tourists descend upon the charming town of Whitbrook, on the edge of the Cotswolds. It’s an ideal getaway location for families or couples alike. The medieval town is best known for its limestone architecture and its typical English village feel. The locals are friendly too, and a visit to the traditional stone-built pub will see you well fed and kept warm.
But Whitbrook is not just known for its hospitality. It’s also the scene of one of England’s mos
t enduring murder mysteries.
[Voice over: Radio 1 evening news report of the killings]
Vivian: What you just heard is the news report broadcast on BBC Radio 1, the day after three members of the Forster family were brutally killed. The tragic event dominated the news in this country for months, and for those of us who are old enough to remember, one of the most disturbing aspects of this tragedy is that the youngest daughter of the family, Molly, disappeared that night without a trace.
Molly was twelve years old.
I’m Vivian Brown and you’re listening to Missing Molly. If you have any information about the disappearance of Molly Forster, please contact your local police station, or you can leave me a message here on (020) 7946-0318. You can also go to our website and follow the prompts to leave a comment. You can choose to remain anonymous if you wish.
[Music]
Vivian: Jack and Mary Forster, and their two children, Grace and Molly, were a well-liked family in the town. Jack Forster, a solicitor, ran his own practice while Mary raised the children and volunteered for numerous local charities. Then, the unthinkable happened. Almost twelve years ago, on the fourth of November, Grace Forster was celebrating her sixteenth birthday with her family and six of Grace’s school friends. The Forsters lived in a large comfortable house in Whitbrook that sits on two acres of what one would describe as a classic English garden. Jack and Mary Forster hosted the small party at their home that afternoon from about four p.m. The children enjoyed a birthday cake followed by a game of cricket in the garden. Grace’s friends stayed until approximately six p.m., by which time the guests left and went back to their respective homes, all within walking distance of the Forster residence.
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