Discarded

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘No, we want the press conference straightaway,’ Tina interrupts, searching her husband’s face for reassurance. ‘We just want her home as soon as possible.’

  ‘As do we, Mrs Neville,’ Cavendish placates, ‘but I don’t want to induce any unnecessary harm.’

  ‘But children not located in the first twenty-four hours rarely return home, isn’t that right, Detective Cavendish?’ Tina challenges, before catching my eye. ‘I read that in one of your books, Emma. It’s true, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we do everything we can to get her back today?’

  I don’t think the question is aimed at me, but Tina’s hopeful stare is fixed on me, and I don’t know how to respond.

  There is a hint of irritation in Cavendish’s voice when she answers. ‘I don’t believe in statistics when it comes to missing-person cases, Mrs Neville. Every investigation is different and just because one set of circumstances occurred once, it certainly doesn’t mean they will occur again.’

  ‘She’s been missing since three o’clock,’ Trey Neville grunts, ‘and there’s only five and a bit hours left until we hit twenty-four. We do the press conference as soon as possible, and get our Jo-Jo back.’

  Cavendish is smart enough not to argue and nods as she stands. ‘Very well, I’ll have our media team draw up a script that you can use to make a personal plea for her safe return.’

  ‘We want Emma to read it,’ Tina says matter-of-factly.

  ‘What?’ Cavendish and I say in unison.

  ‘Well, she’s a well-known figure in the area, and because there are similarities in how her own sister disappeared, we thought it could help the case. Maybe if the kidnappers know she is on the case, they’ll have a change of heart and return Jo-Jo.’

  Grief and desperation can make anyone act out of character, but this is a new one even on me. I’m trying to think of a gracious way to explain that my involvement in the press conference would just muddy the waters, when Cavendish beats me to it.

  ‘No way! I’m sorry, but the last thing your daughter needs is the media circus that follows Emma Hunter around town.’

  I’d have phrased it differently but at least we’re on the same page for once.

  ‘And nobody has drawn any link between what happened to her sister and what has happened to Jo-Jo. There’s no reason to think the cases are connected. It’s purely coincidental that they went missing from this area. I think the press conference needs to be personal and heartfelt.’

  The Nevilles both look to me, like they’re expecting me to argue with Cavendish, but I offer a meek shrug of my shoulders. ‘I think DI Cavendish is right,’ I mumble.

  Cavendish claps her hands together as a judge would bang his gravel to indicate the end of court proceedings. ‘Good. That’s settled then. Emma, can I have a word with you outside, please?’

  I’m grateful to be exiting the stuffiness of the room, but Cavendish closing the door and leaving Robyn inside puts me on edge.

  ‘How is your book with Aurélie progressing? When can I expect to see it on the shelves of the local supermarket?’

  I don’t rise to the bait.

  ‘We’re putting the finishing touches to it now. It’s been a rough few months for her, but I think she’s finally able to see some light at the end of the tunnel.’

  Cavendish presses a finger to her lips, as if she’s deep in thought, trying to unravel some great mystery akin to the eminent Sherlock Holmes. ‘Mmm, good. I still think she should have stood trial in this country for her complicity in some of those activities, but it wasn’t my decision.’ She pauses, the finger still pressed to her lips. ‘I’ve been thinking… I don’t want my real name used in your book.’

  Of all the things I thought she might say when we were alone, this was the last. ‘You don’t want me to use your name?’

  ‘That’s right. If anyone wants to know who the SIO was, they can look it up online. I’d rather any lasting memory of me not be consigned to some second-rate book bought by those seeking titillation and conspiracy.’

  I bite down hard on my tongue so as not to react to the slight on my writing career. ‘You’re barely a footnote in the manuscript anyway,’ I offer disingenuously.

  She lowers her finger, and fixes me with a hard stare. ‘Even so, I’d rather not see my name in print.’

  I can’t believe I’m even considering her request. ‘What do you propose I do instead?’

  ‘I don’t know, make something up. You’re good at that, aren’t you?’

  I bite harder on my tongue. ‘Okay. I suppose I can give you a different identifier if that’s what you want.’

  She smiles, but it is clearly forced and lacks sincerity. ‘Good. And I’d appreciate you not speaking to the Nevilles again while we continue to search for little Jo-Jo. I don’t want you using yet another family’s misfortune to further your career.’

  My mouth drops in astonishment. ‘I wouldn’t! I want to see Jo-Jo’s safe return as much as you.’

  ‘Good, then we have an understanding. I’ll stay out of your way, and you stay the hell away from this case.’

  I had naively hoped that after the support Rachel and I provided with figuring out the truth about Aurélie’s abduction she would understand my writing takes second place to finding justice for the victims and their families. I have never put my writing career ahead of that virtue. Do other people think that too?

  Shrinking back into my shell, I follow Cavendish back along the corridor, and I’m relieved when she doesn’t follow me through the security door. She’s about to pull it closed when a troublesome thought pops out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  ‘You’re certain Jo-Jo hasn’t just run away? Tina Neville, she said something about Jo-Jo giving them a bit of trouble when she and Trey got together.’

  Cavendish considers me for a moment. ‘Okay, I’ll bite, Emma, what is it you’re suggesting?’

  I’m genuinely not trying to trip her up this time. ‘I just meant, if there’s a history of trouble in the family, I’m surprised you’ve automatically jumped to the conclusion that somebody abducted Jo-Jo rather than she’s packed some things and is camping out at friend’s house or some hideaway somewhere.’

  Cavendish folds her arms. ‘You mean aside from the fact that both parents, her step-sister, her grandparents, and her teachers have assured us she isn’t the sort to run away? Of course we’re keeping that possibility in mind, and all uniform units in the area and bordering towns are checking the homeless shelters and parks for anyone matching her description, but I’m not going to waste valuable time searching for an unlikely runaway when her potential kidnappers could be putting distance between themselves and here.’ She lowers her voice again. ‘Given your own history, I would have thought you’d encourage such proactive decision-making, rather than criticise.’

  ‘I wasn’t criticising…’ I begin to say, but she’s allowed the door to close in my face, and I know I’m wasting my breath.

  Pulling out my phone, I see I’ve missed several calls from Maddie. She’s panicking because it’s quarter to ten and I’ve yet to arrive at the book signing to set up. She probably thinks I’ve chickened out.

  ‘Hey there,’ I hear a familiar voice call from behind me.

  Turning, I’m pleased to see the friendly face of PCSO Rick Underwood.

  ‘Can I give you a lift home?’ he asks jovially. ‘It’s the least I can do after dragging you from bed this morning.’

  I can feel eyes burning into the back of my neck from within the station, but I don’t turn to check they belong to Cavendish. ‘A lift into town would be great,’ I say, returning Rick’s smile.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Now

  Weymouth, Dorset

  My first reaction to the enormous line of people is that some major incident has occurred and all the shops on the high street have had to evacuate their customers. It’s only when we reach the end of the queue that I can see where it originates. Surely all these people can’t be here to see m
e?

  Although Waterstones has two entrances, only the rear one faces the road we’ve travelled along, and so I’m forced to walk past the queue of people to the front door, where I can see Maddie inside pacing relentlessly and practically wearing a hole in the carpet. She is chewing the end of a biro (a habit she developed to counter stress when she quit smoking), and it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the second one she’s got through while she’s been waiting.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she hisses under her breath as she has the security guard unlock the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ I offer, nodding at Rick, who has escorted me to the door like I’m some kind of pop star and he’s my bodyguard.

  Maddie eyes him with confusion, not quite able to connect the dots, but then her face lifts and the worry lines dissipate. ‘Oh, this I like,’ she declares broadly. ‘Being escorted to the store by an officer of the law is a great publicity stunt. I wish I’d thought of it myself.’

  I wince, but don’t correct her. ‘I really am sorry I’m late. Something came up that required my attention.’

  Maddie’s anxiety has been totally washed away by Rick’s chiselled features and her eyes haven’t left him since I drew her attention. ‘Don’t worry about any of that,’ she says. ‘You’re here now, and that’s what matters.’ Then it’s as if I’m not even there. She thrusts her hand towards Rick. ‘We haven’t been introduced. I’m Maddie Travers, Emma’s agent. And you are?’

  He blushes slightly at her directness, but shakes the hand. ‘Rick Underwood. I’m the reason Emma is late, so please don’t take it out on her. It’s entirely my fault.’ He glances over at me, and his smile grows. ‘Thanks for this morning. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.’

  He allows the grumpy security guard to lock the door and Maddie’s focus finally returns to the job at hand. ‘They’ve set you up a table just over here so that the event doesn’t clog up the main entrance. Did you bring a drink with you?’

  Brightly coloured posters are taped all over and around the table, each one produced by my publisher to promote the launch of the books. It looks a bit tacky to me, but who am I to criticise Maddie’s efforts? At least she arrived on time. I had meant to buy refreshments on my slow meander into town after the fry-up I never got, and so I can only shake my head meekly.

  ‘Never mind, I’ll buy you a bottle of water once the tills are open. We have a huge crowd of people to get through. I had planned that you would have pre-signed some copies, but we haven’t time for that now, so you’ll just have to go one at a time. I’ll stick by for as long as I can to keep things moving. Okay? Are you ready for this?’

  Am I ready to smile non-stop for the next two hours, listening to praise for my books when all I want to do is hide in a cave and let Maddie handle all forms of criticism? Of course I’m not, but I know that isn’t what she wants to hear. Cavendish’s words are still stinging in my mind, and I hate the thought that there are others out there who think that the books I have written were done with the intention of profiting from the tragedies that befell my subjects. I only wrote Monsters Under the Bed to cast much-needed light on the abuses at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. I never would have described the events surrounding Cassie Hilliard’s abduction in Ransomed had my publisher not insisted on it. I am here today as much because of circumstance and Maddie’s insistence that I contribute to the publicity machine. If I had my way, I would write at home and only venture out for food and drink. I envy those who write under a pseudonym. Anonymity is not my shield.

  I nod in response to Maddie’s question and try to make myself comfortable on the hardened plastic chair behind the table.

  ‘There are three boxes of hardback copies of Isolated under the table to your left,’ Maddie points out. ‘And a box each of the paperback versions of Monsters and Ransomed. If someone wants to purchase all three then fab, otherwise focus on pushing the new book, as we have more copies of that. They have two more boxes in the storeroom if we run out, and judging by the length of the queue already, there’s a real possibility of that.’

  I take out the two pens I packed in my satchel and hold them up so Maddie knows I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

  ‘I’ll take you for a nice spot of lunch when we’re done here,’ she says excitedly. ‘I’ll put it on company expenses.’

  With that, the security guard unlocks the automated doors, and signals for the first of the queue to enter. The woman practically bounces up to the desk, the leopard-print spectacles sliding down her nose.

  ‘Can I just say, I am your biggest fan, Emma? I’ve been queueing here since five o’clock this morning just so I could guarantee getting a copy of your new book signed.’

  At first I assume she is joking, but she is smiling so much that even my face begins to ache. ‘Wow, really? 5am? That’s dedication for you.’

  Her expression suddenly becomes graver. ‘I am dedicated. I was the first to buy Ransomed when it came out in hardback, and now I’ll be the first to get my hands on Isolated.’

  I don’t mention that copies of the book have been on sale in airports since Friday.

  ‘Who should I make it out to?’ I ask, reaching for one of the copies lying flat on the table.

  ‘Can you put, “To my number one fan, Ruby”?’

  I begin to write the inscription. ‘Do you want any other personalised message?’

  The question has thrown her. ‘Oh, I don’t know, just put whatever you think is good.’

  I cringe inwardly at this response, as I do every time I hear it at this sort of event. Is it not enough that I poured my heart and soul into producing the finished article without being expected to come up with some meaningful and heartfelt dedication for a person I’ve never met before? I remember raising this challenge when Maddie forced me into a signing of Monsters and her response was: just put something like, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  I say the words aloud as I write them in the book, before scrawling my author’s signature beneath them. That was another thing I didn’t learn until after that first book signing; the need to develop a signature different to the one I would use for writing cheques, and signing contracts. How easy would it be for a forger to get hold of one of my autographed books and learn how to imitate my hand? And so I now use a flowing E and H as my sign-off, which looks nothing like what’s scrawled on the back of my debit card.

  Ruby snatches up the book and admires the message but makes no effort to move away from the table and allow the next person to come forward. ‘What’s it like being able to see the clues to a mystery that us normal folk miss?’

  I look to Maddie for support but she’s gone off to buy me that bottle of water, which means I’m stranded and won’t be able to move Ruby on without offending her. I don’t have an answer to her question, because I’ve never really looked at myself in that way.

  ‘I… um… I just do my best to assess the facts.’

  I’m cringing on the inside, but she isn’t done yet.

  ‘Did you know instinctively that Cassie Hilliard was still alive when her grandfather approached you that morning?’

  I puff out my cheeks, stalling for time. ‘Well, um, so much has happened since that day that I…’ Why am I trying to actually think of an answer to this question? If Rachel were here (God, I miss her!) she’d give the response of least resistance and move excitable Ruby on. ‘I had no idea,’ I say. ‘I just followed the evidence as you read in the book, and everything slotted into place.’

  Maddie returns and plants the bottle of water beside my writing hand, frowning at Ruby. ‘Oh you don’t pay for the book here. You need to take it to the till first,’ she says, and as soon as Ruby looks over to where she has indicated, Maddie is calling for the next fan to step forward.

  The young woman who approaches next must be sixteen or seventeen at most, in ripped jeans and a crop top, despite the cold temperature outside. Her face is buried in her phone and her jaw is bouncing rh
ythmically with the gum in her mouth. I’d bet she hasn’t been standing in the queue as long as Ruby. In fact, she doesn’t even look up as she reaches the table. It’s only when I see Rick bouncing up and down outside the door that I realise who she is.

  ‘You must be Rick’s sister?’ I ask, as I reach into the box for a fresh copy of the book. I wave him over, as I know the dedication is for his benefit and the grumpy security guard steps aside to allow him entrance.

  ‘What should I put?’ I ask him, and is face is almost as giddy as Ruby’s was.

  ‘That’s okay, you only need to sign your name,’ he says stoically. ‘Would you mind if I got my sister to take a picture of us to go with it?’

  How can I refuse when he gave me the lift here?

  ‘Sure,’ I say, cringing inwardly again, and he crouches down beside me at the table while his sister – who finally looks up from her phone – snaps the picture on his phone.

  Outside the door there is a sudden surge of excitement as those at the front extract their phones, and I now realise the error of my ways. This event is going to last all day at this rate.

  ‘It really has been a pleasure meeting you,’ he says when I hand him the book, ‘and I was wondering whether it would be possible for me to see you again some time? Maybe we could go for a drink in town? You live locally, and I’m just up the road in Dorchester… what do you say?’

  In my periphery Maddie is tapping the watch on her wrist. I need to choose the path of least resistance.

  ‘Um, yeah, okay, a drink in town sounds great,’ I respond, scribbling my number on the back of a promotional bookmark that is set into a fan-shape on one corner of the table.