by M. A. Hunter
‘I can take a photo of the image and send it over via email,’ Maddie offers.
‘Sure,’ I relent, and check my phone until my inbox pings. Switching Maddie to speaker phone, I download the image and stare at it on my phone. ‘I can’t say I recognise the name, or the face,’ I admit. ‘Pretty young thing though. I don’t remember coming across the name Faye, nor McKenna, in any of my previous research, but I can check on the Foundation’s database and see if her family are listed.’
I hope this doesn’t become a common thing: parents trying to emotionally blackmail me into accepting their requests for financial support. Since we launched the Anna Hunter Foundation a little over a year ago, we have been inundated with requests for help, and that’s the purpose of the charity, but there are also those chancers who will request support under the pretence of having a missing child. Each application is rigorously checked, and we even have a small team of private investigators on retainer to verify the authenticity of each claim.
Loading up my laptop, I log into the Foundation site and check the database of claimant names, but there is no Faye McKenna listed.
‘Are you sure there was nothing else in the envelope?’ I check with Maddie. ‘It isn’t possible a letter fell out when you pulled out the photograph? No explanation of who sent it to me, or why?’
I can hear Maddie scuttling about on her carpet, before she returns to the phone. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’ll bring the envelope and original picture with me in the morning, and you can see for yourself. Maybe whoever sent it forgot to include a letter of explanation. I wouldn’t let it worry you tonight. Go to bed and get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow. Remember, I will meet you at the shop at half nine. Okay?’
‘Sure, thanks, Maddie. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Switching off the laptop and locking my phone, I head to bed, but I don’t settle for ages as all I can see when I close my eyes is Faye McKenna’s face.
Chapter Ten
Then
Piddlehinton, Dorset
‘Do you want to wash your hands? Dinner’s nearly ready,’ Chez said to her, as she continued to stare lovingly at her freshly polished nails.
‘It smells delicious,’ she told him, sliding out from behind the table and squeezing past him into the small bathroom at the rear of the cabin.
‘It ought to be! Spaghetti bolognese – my grandmother’s recipe – the only thing she taught me before I left.’
Joanna used the facilities, the nerves that had gripped her bladder so tightly finally easing. For all the fear and anxiety, nothing bad had happened. And if Chez was so bright and positive about life here, who was she to question it? Deep down, she knew Grey taking her hadn’t been right, but there was also something inside that told her if this was all some elaborate ruse, then her parents would use the police to find her, so why not play along until then? Grey’s words were still fresh in her mind, and she didn’t want to end up buried in some hole, never to be found.
After washing her hands she exited the small bathroom and returned to the kitchen area. Chez had cleared the table of the nail polishes and had placed forks and plates where they had been sitting.
‘You can grate the cheese if you like,’ he said over his shoulder, stirring the pan of red sauce, while steam from the pan of pasta hovered in a cloud above her head.
She spotted the block of cheese and the metal grater on the table with the plates and headed over. ‘You know, my mum never lets me near the grater; she always says I’ll cut myself and ruin the cheese. Are you sure you want me to do it?’
Chez looked over, his mouth pulled into a pitying grimace. ‘Do you think you’ll cut yourself doing it?’
She shook her head firmly.
‘Well, then,’ he replied. ‘Neither do I. Go on, you’ll be saving me the effort if you do it. I’ll strain the pasta and start plating up.’
Taking the block of cheese in her hand, she dragged it over the metal ridges, each stroke giving a satisfying tear. Her mum never trusted her to do anything! Everyone always said how mature she was for her age, yet they still treated her like a seven-year-old. She was more than capable of grating some cheese; in fact, she was pretty sure she could learn to make spaghetti bolognese like Chez if he showed her how.
He arrived at the table and slopped the strands of spaghetti onto their plates before returning with the second pan, ladling generous helpings on top of the pasta.
‘Would you teach me how to make this?’ she asked nervously, not yet sure how much of an act his generosity was.
‘I’ll teach you anything you want to know, Ky—’ He stopped himself. ‘Sorry, it’s just you really do remind me of my sister Kylie. For a moment it was like I was back with her.’ He paused. ‘In fact, do you know what, I’m going to call you Kylie from now on. Is that okay with you? You could do with a big brother around here, and it would be nice having a little sister again.’
She’d never been a fan of the name Joanna – not that her family ever used her full name anyway.
‘Okay, big brother,’ she gushed, her heart warming.
He looked just as pleased. ‘Well, isn’t this just grand? The two of us reunited over Grandma’s spaghetti bolognese.’
He squashed into the seat beside her, taking the pot of grated cheese and sprinkling a handful over the steaming dinner, before repeating the action for her. She watched as he picked up his fork, drove it into the mountain of strands, twirled it into a ball shape, and pushed it between his freckled lips. At home, her mum always chopped the spaghetti into smaller strands, but she was keen to learn how to eat it like a grown-up. Stabbing the pasta, she had to use both hands to twirl the fork as Chez had, but when she extracted the fork, most of the pasta fell off. She tried again, this time managing to keep a couple of strands precariously balanced on the tip of the fork, and quickly inhaling them into her mouth. The sauce was rich and tomatoey.
‘What’s Grandma’s secret recipe?’ she asked. ‘Will you tell me?’
‘I will tell you anything you want to know, Kylie.’ He dropped his stained fork back onto the table and squeezed back off the seat, returning to the kitchen area. She saw him rustling through the bin, before extracting an empty glass jar. ‘Here we are,’ he said, twirling it around in his hand. ‘So, what you do is boil the pasta for ten or so minutes, pour this bad boy into a separate pan and simmer it until the pasta is ready. Dead easy, but so tasty.’
Is that it? she wanted to ask, disappointed that Grandma’s so-called secret recipe could be purchased in any decent grocery shop. At least it wouldn’t be too difficult to master.
‘It’s yummy,’ she said, trying and failing to twirl her pasta again.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it. It’s one of my jobs here, taking care of our guests. My cookery skills are a tad limited, but you won’t ever go hungry.’
She studied his pasta twirling technique once more, committing the action to memory, and determined to show him that she was mature for her age. On the third attempt, she managed to create a small ball, and quickly shovelled it into her mouth. Pleased as punch, she did it again, this time calling to him, but just as he looked over, the pasta slipped from the fork, cascading down the front of her dress.
Her cheeks instantly reddened and she grabbed handfuls of the pasta, quickly returning it to her plate and looking for something to wipe her top.
‘Oh no, it’s going to stain. Mum’s going to kill me.’ The tears filling her eyes were unexpected, but she didn’t fight to restrain them.
‘Hey, hey,’ Chez sighed, ‘there’s no need to upset yourself. It’s only a bit of sauce. I can get that cleaned up for you. Don’t worry about it. Removing unwanted stains from clothes is something I’m particularly good at.’
He reached out and began grappling to lift the dress over her head, but she didn’t feel comfortable stripping off in front of him and wrenched the material back. In that moment, she would have given anything to be back at home, even though her mum would be
in the middle of reprimanding her for being so careless.
‘Listen, it’s okay,’ he tried again, calmness personified. ‘I’ve got some of my sister’s old clothes in a case in my room. I can pick you something out to wear while I give your dress a clean.’
It didn’t cross her mind to question why he would have his sister’s clothes here when he’d left home three years earlier. Instead, she watched entranced as he took her hand and led her through the kitchen area, turning right at the door to the small bathroom and into a bedroom with twin beds. He encouraged her to sit on one before pulling open a wardrobe and extracting a tattered case from the darkness. Plopping it on the bed, he lifted the lid and began to rifle through until he located the prettiest black sequined number.
‘This ought to fit,’ he exclaimed happily as he hoisted it into the air. ‘You’re about the same size as Kylie. Get that one off and you can wear this while we finish dinner.’
She began to peel the dress up, before hesitating. ‘Could you turn around?’
He rolled his eyes in a forgiving way. ‘You don’t need to be embarrassed about changing in front of me. I’m your brother, remember, and I have no interest in your naked body. Besides, if you want to be a movie star, you’re going to have to get used to having strangers looking at you.’
She remained still until he turned his back, and then she quickly whipped off her stained dress and slid the black one over her head. The material felt rougher on her skin than she’d anticipated; it certainly looked nicer than it felt. But with it in place she stood and admired her reflection in the small mirror hanging from the cupboard door.
‘Oh my God, you’re the spitting image of Kylie now,’ he gushed. ‘It is scary how much you look like her.’
The garment certainly made her look older – or at least she thought so. She could probably pass for twelve now at a push, and this thought wiped away the tearful grimace, replacing it with a vibrant smile.
‘Here, I’ll zip you up,’ Chez offered, fiddling with the catch behind her head. ‘Now, shall we go and finish our dinner? I can’t stand around chatting all night, or I’ll be late for work…’
His eyes widened and the blood drained from his face in an instant as his arm flew up so he could check his watch. ‘Oh Jesus! I’m going to be late. Feck!’ He looked back at her. ‘Are you all right to finish up without me? If I don’t get my arse to work now, the shit’s gonna hit the fan.’
She hadn’t realised he would be working tonight, and had hoped he would remain with her, telling her more about the nature of his work.
‘Can I come with you?’ she tentatively asked, already anticipating his response. ‘I’ll be super quiet and I won’t get in the way, I promise.’
He was only half-listening, bounding out of the room, grabbing a leather-look jacket from a peg on the wall by the main door. ‘Not tonight, sorry. It’s a closed set and only authorised people are allowed inside to watch.’ He stopped when he saw the despondency creeping across her features. ‘Listen, I’ll be quick as I can and I’ll be back before you know it. Why don’t you finish up your dinner, and just have a rest. If you feel tired, your bed is the one I left the case on. Just put it on my bed and you can go to sleep.’
With that he pushed out of the door, locking it behind him.
Dejected, she returned to the bench behind the table and squeezed in, but her appetite had gone. It wasn’t Chez’s fault he had to work, and maybe he’d been telling the truth when he said he’d be back sooner than she was expecting.
The light overhead flickered for a moment before flashing out, and the cabin suddenly plunged into darkness again. Even if she’d wanted to finish her dinner, she couldn’t see it. Thoughts of her mother and father flooded her mind once more, wondering whether they were out looking for her now and how much longer she’d have to wait before they found her. The tears began to flow again and once more she didn’t resist. Fatigue eventually arrived, but it was so dark that she didn’t dare venture out from behind the table, instead curling up on the cushioned bench and resting her head on the rolled-up remains of the dress she’d arrived in. Closing her eyes, she allowed the darkness to embrace her.
Chapter Eleven
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
Fevered knocking at my door isn’t welcome, especially as I was having the most wonderful dream – not that I can now recall what it was about. Rubbing my eyes, I’m curious to know who would be causing such a racket before eight on a Sunday, and as my mind tries to consider and rule out illogical possibilities, when I open the door I’m half-expecting to see one of Maddie, Jack, Freddie, or Rachel (even though I know she’s in Barcelona). The one person that hadn’t made it onto the roulette wheel in my head was the smiling Police Community Support Officer sheltering from the rain.
‘Miss Hunter?’ he enquires, and for the briefest of moments I’m almost convinced that I’m still dreaming, but then a gust of wind blows rain into my face, and the cool splashes are a rude awakening.
‘Yes, sorry, can I help you with something?’ I yawn, quickly covering my mouth.
‘I’m Rick Underwood. Would you mind if I came in out of the rain for a second?’
I’m not usually willing to allow perfect strangers to enter my home uninvited, but he does appear to be wearing the requisite royal-blue polo shirt and high-visibility vest supporting his credentials. I take a single step back, keeping the door’s edge gripped firmly in my hand, ready to force it closed if the need arises. He steps in, removing his hat and showing off a buzz cut more befitting an army recruit in some film about the Vietnam War.
‘Thank you,’ he says quickly, not forcing himself any further in. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you? I would have thought all writers would be up at the crack of dawn writing.’
Glancing over his shoulder, it doesn’t look as though it’s long since dawn. There is nobody on the beach, save for the odd dog walker wrapped in waterproof coats, braving the elements.
As a rule, I try not to write on the weekends. Since signing my first publishing deal, I’ve tried to remind myself that I am a professional writer now, and as such I need to treat my profession in the same way as any other. That’s why I will write Monday to Friday, usually somewhere between the hours of nine and five. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter where or when I write, but I seem to respond better to a routine, and that’s mine.
‘I’m between books,’ I tell him, as it’s easier than going into the truth.
He smiles pleasantly, tucking his thumbs into the edges of his high-visibility vest. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to forgive me, but I can’t quite believe I’m standing here right now. I’m such a huge fan of your books, Miss Hunter. I read Ransomed cover-to-cover twice in a week. The way you tell the story… and leave tantalising clues at the end of each chapter, forcing the reader to just read one more chapter… and then another, and then another. I’m pinching myself right now; I can’t believe it’s really you.’
You’d think I’d be used to these moments by now, but as soon as anyone offers praise for my writing or one of my book babies, I clam up and will a hole to open in the ground and swallow me. It’s less common to hear such positivity from within the police community, especially after the publication of Monsters, though there have been one or two who’ve spoken kindly.
‘It’s always nice to meet a fan,’ I say, releasing the door so that I can allow my hands to fidget and twitch behind my back. ‘Do you have any identification?’
His head wobbles as he realises his error and he quickly reaches into his pocket, removing a small lanyard containing a picture of his face, rank, and identification number. Satisfied that I’m not dealing with a crazed fan looking to have their wicked way with me, I beckon him inside, for no reason other than the chill wind is giving my legs goosebumps. Heading into the kitchen, I boil the kettle and fix myself a much-needed cup of strong tea.
‘Would you like anything to drink?’ I offer, but am not surprised when he politely declines.
&
nbsp; I’m about to ask him exactly why he has darkened my door so early on a Sunday when my brain finally whirs to life and connects the dots. I should have seen it sooner. Given his handsome face, spontaneity, and appearance today of all days, he must be an actor Maddie has hired to escort me to the book signing at Waterstones. Typical of Maddie to instigate a stunt to highlight the work I’ve done with the police in the last couple of years that has directly contributed to the books I’ve produced. I shouldn’t criticise, but I wish she’d warned me; I’m not going to be able to call in for that cooked breakfast on the way to the signing now either. Maybe that’s why she really phoned last night, to check I’d be home when her actor arrived.
I freeze as last night’s call fires fresh in my mind, and I think back to the black and white photograph of Faye McKenna she emailed to me. I checked for the name on the Anna Hunter Foundation database, but I didn’t think to check on the missingpeople.org site where I host a page for my sister.
‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’ I say to Rick. ‘I need to get dressed and check my emails before we go.’
He nods his understanding, but makes no movement towards pulling out a chair to sit on.
Tucking the laptop beneath my arm, I carry my tea back to my bedroom and drop the computer on the bed, before washing and quickly dressing in the outfit Maddie had selected. It’s a cream blouse with purple flower petals, matched with a violet skirt that apparently highlights my femininity and shows off my ‘fabulous legs’. I don’t care what Maddie wants, I will be wearing tights today, based on the chill in the wintry air.
