by M. A. Hunter
‘Where are Sally’s parents now?’
‘Still on the base, the last I heard. Sally’s dad is a captain there now, I think. I haven’t spoken to either of them since Nat and I left. I’ve moved on with my life since then, and I expect they probably have as well.’
‘Do you have a number for them at all? I’d like to speak to them if I can. Natalie was adamant that I try and get hold of Sally, and if she did run away as you suspect, then maybe she has reached out and made contact with her parents latterly.’
Cheryl stands, opens the bedroom door, marches back to the main room and collects her jacket and handbag from the hook near the main door. ‘We’ll go together. I need some more ciggies anyway.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Now
Bovington Garrison, Dorset
When the bus pulls up outside the base, I start as the armed soldier emerges from the hut beside the security barrier. Despite how Cheryl had described the place to me, I hadn’t expected to see such a heightened level of security. The window at the security barrier is closed, and I now see an instruction board affixed to the side of the guard’s hut, detailing that all approved visitors must sign in before being escorted to their chosen location on the base. As far as I’m aware, we have no such permission, so I’m not sure how Cheryl thinks we’re going to get in. However, rather than approaching the barrier, she promptly turns and begins to cross the road away from the base.
‘Are we not going inside?’ I ask, hurrying after her.
‘Too many eyes and ears in there. I messaged Diane and she’ll meet us in here.’
I now see a small pub with a thatched roof just around the next corner, out of sight of the base – and yet barely a stone’s throw away. Cheryl pushes the door open just as the first spots of rain splash against my cheeks.
The pub is a bit of a dive – grime-stained windows, flashing lights from the out-of-date fruit machines, and the ancient staining of cigarette smoke darkening the once white ceiling. At least it’s quiet, though I can just about make out the sound of a television voice commentating on a horse race somewhere nearby. Approaching the bar, I scan the refrigerators for something non-alcoholic to drink, as it’s barely eleven o’clock. Cheryl is less conscientious and orders a pint of Guinness and a bag of dry roasted peanuts.
‘I’ll grab us a table,’ she says, as the old man behind the bar sets her glass on the thin towel on the bar.
He looks at me, his eyes asking what I want, without his lips uttering a word.
‘Do you serve tea or coffee?’
He shakes his head.
‘I’ll have an orange juice then, please.’
He stoops to the fridge and removes a glass bottle, twisting off the cap, as he places it in front of me. ‘Seven-fifty.’
Once I have my change, I carry my bottle to the table where Cheryl has already devoured the bag of nuts.
‘Used to come in here all the time,’ Cheryl tells me, looking around the carpeted room. ‘Especially when Geoff was overseas on short-term assignments. It’s nothing special, but at least it’s quiet.’
A gust of wind blows through the bar as the door is opened a minute or so later. A woman with blonde curls stands in the doorway, wearing a huskie-coloured faux-fur coat, and in the brightest ruby slippers that would make even Dorothy jealous. Her lipstick is the same shade, and as she brushes raindrops from the coat, she winks at the bartender.
‘I’ll have a large G&T, Ray,’
Her high-pitched accent certainly isn’t local and, based on experience, I’d guess she was raised closer to Essex than this neck of the woods.
She joins us at the table a moment later and Cheryl introduces us.
‘Emma Hunter, let me introduce you to Diane Curtis. Diane, this is the writer I messaged you about.’
I extend my hand, which she shakes, before removing the coat and hanging it from a stand in the corner.
‘I was so sorry to hear about your Nat,’ Diane says, sitting down and immediately squeezing Cheryl’s hand. ‘I always thought she seemed to take our Sal’s disappearance the worst.’
‘Thank you,’ Cheryl replies, raising her glass in silent toast to her daughter’s memory. ‘Hopefully she’ll find some peace after all this time.’
Diane turns to face me as the barman carries over her large G&T and I hand him more cash. ‘You’re much prettier in person,’ she tells me, before covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Not that I mean you don’t look pretty when I’ve seen your face on the telly, I just mean you’re even prettier in person.’
The heat rushes to my cheeks and I just about manage to thank her for the compliment.
‘So, you’re planning on writing a book about my Sally, are you?’ she says next, causing me to nearly spit out a mouthful of juice.
‘No, I never said that.’
Diane looks to Cheryl for confirmation, who nods. ‘No, but you said you weren’t doing a story on our Nat, and then you started asking all those questions about Sally. I just assumed…’
Both women are now staring me down, suddenly questioning why I have so dramatically appeared in their lives. I can’t say I’m even certain how we’ve ended up here.
You need to find her. Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.
Diane now leans in closer, talking in a loud whisper. ‘I know my daughter didn’t just run away, Miss Hunter. They know what happened to her, and they’ve been covering it up for years. Once you understand what Gestapo-like rule that place is under, you’ll see why we have to be so careful when speaking.’ She pauses and takes a sip of her drink.
‘As far as the army is concerned, Diane and I lost touch after Geoff’s death,’ Cheryl picks up. ‘Meeting up became trickier, but then Diane started using Facebook to let me know where she’d be. She’d post something casual about going to the hair salon, or the supermarket, and I’d know that was my cue to see her there. We’re not friends on Facebook, but her privacy settings are open so I’m able to see her posts when I need to. Similarly, if I need to speak to her urgently about something, I’ll send a cryptic text message, which appears on her phone as the name of an old friend of hers from college. She can’t message me direct in case her bill gets checked. It doesn’t always run so smoothly, but they’ve left us little other choice.’
‘Isn’t it a bit risky meeting here though?’ I ask. ‘We can see the base from the window.’
‘Clever, isn’t it?’ Diane beams. ‘Because this place is right under their noses, it’s the last place they’d assume we’d meet. Hiding in broad daylight, so to speak.’
The two women paint the army as some kind of clandestine organisation hell-bent on keeping them apart, though they’ve offered little evidence to support such an allegation.
‘Tell them why you’re convinced your Sal is still alive,’ Cheryl urges her.
Diane’s eyes widen and she takes an enormous breath. ‘Well, there were so many things about that time that just didn’t make sense: whispered conversations, knowing glances exchanged between men in uniform whose faces I didn’t recognise. I raised my concerns with my husband Owen, but he told me not to worry, and that the army looked after its own. That was how he phrased it. In the early days, I presumed he was right, and the way in which all the wives, husbands and partners flocked to us, it really did feel like we were part of some enormous machine. The entire operation was managed from the moment we reported Sally missing, but I just wanted her home, safe and sound, and I allowed myself to get swept up in all the plans to post her picture and scour the local towns for any sight of her.
‘I remember about six weeks after her disappearance, the local police thought they’d found a sighting of her at the train station in Dorchester. CCTV from the station a week after she’d vanished showed a girl of a similar height and build waiting on the platform for a train to arrive. It was raining on the night in question, and so the girl had the hood pulled up and over her head, so it was impossible to make a positive identification from the video, but it
was the first tangible clue that DC Rimmington had managed to find. The image was shared on social media, and in the local news, and it was the first positive news we’d received. What we didn’t know at the time – what Rimmington and her colleagues had failed to share – was that when the CCTV footage rolled on, the girl didn’t board a train as everyone had assumed, but in fact left the station and climbed into a car in the car park. This car was eventually traced back to a local builder who’d been called out late by his own daughter, who admitted to being the girl on the station. It was Colonel Havvard’s influence that finally revealed the truth, and from that moment onwards, we were discouraged from relying on Rimmington and the civilian police force.’
She pauses for another drink and Cheryl excuses herself, heading out to the shelter in the beer garden to light up.
‘What do you think happened to Sally?’ I ask Diane.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ she replies evenly. ‘I wasn’t surprised that she’d snuck out of our house that night, as she was the sort of girl who liked to push the boundaries. She wasn’t a minx like some of the newspapers suggested. I know that Nat and the others briefly came under suspicion, but if you met the three of them you’d know none of them could hurt a fly, and having spoken to them individually, I have no doubt in my mind that they don’t know where she went either. They said they were playing truth or dare, and Sally was dared to go and find some sort of implement that could be used as a sex toy – a fallen branch or whatever – and never returned. They assumed she’d run off home, leaving them in the woods, and were just as shocked when she didn’t show up at school the next day.’
‘So, where did she go then?’
‘That’s the thing, you see. Those woods form part of the base, but there is still a fence that marks the outer boundary – and it’s barbed-wired. There are signs everywhere warning the public not to enter because there are always military exercises being carried out. And the army themselves checked that outer perimeter fence and there was no sign of a breach, so the only way our Sal could have left the woods was back through the hole through which the four of them had used. Unless she’s been living in those woods for the last fifteen years, she had to have snuck back onto the base, but then where did she go? Back then, the base didn’t have the level of security cameras that it does now, so there wasn’t any footage of her emerging from the woods, but there are plenty of houses she could have snuck into. But that still doesn’t explain what happened to her afterwards. It’s impossible to sneak off the base without someone helping you.’
‘So, is that what you think happened? Sally had help getting away?’
Diane shakes her head as Cheryl returns from the beer garden. ‘She was fourteen years old, and whilst she might have passed for sixteen, there’s no way she would have been able to secure a home and a job. As much as I want to believe that someone helped Sally to escape, I simply don’t believe it. For one thing, no vehicles were reported as leaving the base that night. That kind of scenario would require weeks of planning and organisation, which wasn’t one of Sally’s strengths. She was too impulsive. She took after me in that way.’
I take a moment to choose my next words carefully. ‘Was there any reason Sally might have wanted to run away? Was she happy at school? Um… was there anything troubling her at the time? Was she being bullied? You mentioned boyfriends earlier, so is it possible she ran off with one of the new recruits staying on the base?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that as far as I’m aware. She was a nice girl, very popular at school, and if anything, she’d be the bully rather than the victim. That detective asked all these questions at the time.’
Cheryl is now sitting back between us, and Diane’s responses sound so well rehearsed that it’s starting to bother me.
‘Which returns me to my original question, Mrs Curtis. What happened to Sally? On the one hand you say that you don’t think she ran away, yet on the other hand you’re suggesting that the army is covering up the truth. I’m at a loss as to what you believe really happened.’
She’s about to respond when she suddenly closes her mouth and her eyes dart to something over my left shoulder. Turning, I see that a man in camouflage attire has entered the pub and is now staring at the three of us at the table. Ray, the barman, has mysteriously disappeared.
The man must be in his mid-fifties with greying hair that I would guess was once ginger, and with a puffy face that has enjoyed more than the occasional fine meal. There is a wry smile gripping his features as he moves slowly towards us.
‘What’s all this then?’ he asks, his voice a deep Welsh baritone.
Neither Diane nor Cheryl respond, and for some reason childhood memories of being caught doing something naughty flicker to the forefront of my mind.
Cheryl and Diane are avoiding eye contact, and before he even turns to me, I sense I already know who he is.
‘You’re Emma Hunter,’ he declares, meeting my gaze. ‘It’s a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Colonel William Havvard, and I’ve been told your novel makes quite the interesting read.’
So much for hiding in broad daylight!
‘What a cosy meeting this is,’ he says, reaching for a stool at a vacant table and pulling it over, before sitting on it. ‘You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’ he asks rhetorically.
There is still no response from Diane or Cheryl, and as I see Havvard staring at my mobile phone on the table, I feel compelled to end the recording and quickly hide the phone back in my satchel.
‘I presume you’re all discussing the anniversary of Sally’s disappearance?’ Havvard continues. ‘I wish you’d let me know as we’ve been meaning to do something fresh to see if we can’t throw some fresh light on what happened to her. We like to look after our own. And I don’t mind admitting it’s never sat easy with me, her disappearing like that. So, how far had you got in the story of what happened to Sally?’
The mood at the table has become suddenly icier. Cheryl and Diane’s reactions to Colonel Havvard’s appearance tells me they either fear or respect him; maybe it’s a little of both. In fairness, he is an imposing figure. Though we’ve never met, even I feel like I’m doing something wrong just being here.
I’m about to answer his question when Diane suddenly looks up with tear-stained eyes and beats me to it. ‘Just a chance encounter, that’s all this is. Emma here’s an old friend of Cheryl’s, aren’t you, Emma?’
I feel compelled to nod out of courtesy, but decide to throw the spotlight back onto him.
‘Colonel Havvard, you said something about wishing to throw some fresh light on Sally’s disappearance. What did you have in mind?’
He gives me a curious look. Maybe he’s not used to women who aren’t afraid to stand up to him.
‘I’m intrigued to know how you fit into this conversation, Miss Hunter. Are you hoping to find the hidden clue that finally brings closure to this truly horrific set of circumstances?’
I don’t appreciate his tone, but then, I also think he’s trying to get a rise out of me so I don’t react. ‘You think too highly of me, Colonel Havvard. Yes, I’m an investigative journalist, but I can only follow clues that are there to be found. I haven’t actually decided whether or not I can add anything to this situation. And if you’re already planning some kind of fresh campaign to try and shine new light on the case, then there’s probably little else I can offer.’
I deliberately haven’t mentioned Natalie’s dying words to me, as I don’t feel it is my place to do so. And I don’t understand why I’m feeling so guilty about talking to Cheryl and Diane; we’re not breaking any laws here.
‘I’m sure having a famous writer in our midst wouldn’t be a hindrance to our plans. If anything, it might help uncover the truth of what happened that night.’
There isn’t a trace of concern in his manner, and in spite of the awkward silence that has now descended over Cheryl and Diane, he looks relaxed… almost like he’s enjoying himself.
‘So what exactly have you got planned, Colonel Havvard?’ I say, keen to upset the tables.
‘Well,’ he begins, suddenly leaning forwards and interlocking his fingers beneath his chin, ‘I have a meeting booked in with Mr Panko, who was head teacher at the school Sally attended. He’s also keen to remind the public of Sally’s disappearance, and even mooted the idea of organising a televised reconstruction of Sally’s final known movements.’
‘They did a reconstruction fifteen years ago and it didn’t help,’ Cheryl snaps.
‘But technology has moved on since then, and maybe fresh interviews with her friends could also help. It’s common for the human species to repress memories at times of conflict and trouble, and who knows what one of them might now recall all these years later?’ He turns to face Cheryl. ‘What do you say, Cheryl? Would your Natalie be willing to go in front of a camera and answer questions about that night?’
She quickly wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. It’s clear Havvard isn’t aware of Natalie’s suicide, or if he is, it was a particularly snide remark to make.
‘I have contacts in the media now,’ I interrupt, ‘and might be able to put you in touch with someone who could help organise that.’
Havvard is still staring at Cheryl and Diane, but nods. ‘Great.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I should probably be getting back to the base now. I’ll walk you back if you’d like, Diane?’
She stands without comment and pulls the faux-fur coat over her shoulders before following him out into the rain like some obedient canine.
Cheryl reaches for her stout and downs the pint before wiping her mouth with her sleeve. ‘What a knobhead!’
