by M. A. Hunter
‘My agent and I have both held the image, and I couldn’t see any obvious fingerprints when I held it up to the light,’ I point out, guessing that he’s thinking there might still be trace evidence to collect. I turn it over regardless, resting it face-down, and indicating the date of birth in the top corner.
‘Do we know if there’s a date of birth on the second photograph?’ he asks next, his jaw stiffening.
‘Maddie has only scanned one side of the image. I’ll ask her to send the reverse too,’ I say, typing the message. ‘I take it you don’t recognise him as missing from this area?’
Rick considers the image again before shaking his head. ‘Sorry.’
Opening my laptop I load my emails so I can look at the picture of the young man on a bigger screen. He has a face full of freckles and his auburn hair curls naturally, from fringe to the crown. I’d guess he’s fifteen or sixteen at most, but there is a seriousness to the half-smile he’s holding, and it reminds me of the picture of Faye. She too had this semi-serious pose, and when I load the two images beside each other on the screen, I’m suddenly struck with a thought.
‘What do these look like to you?’ I ask Rick, turning the screen so he can see it better.
‘School photographs?’ he shrugs.
‘No uniform,’ I counter, ‘besides, school photographs are usually head, shoulders, and upper torso. These are headshots, like you’d see in a modelling portfolio, or—’
He clicks his fingers. ‘Actors.’
I shrug in acceptance. ‘Maybe. If I’m a casting director auditioning for roles, this is what I’d expect to see alongside a résumé…’
My mind continues to process the theory as nausea bubbles in the back of my throat. An image of the Pendark Film Studios sign flashes behind my eyes. Given Freddie’s and Anna’s faces both appeared on footage discovered on the late Arthur Turgood’s hard drive, is it possible Faye and this young man also did? I will have to raise the question with Jack when I next speak to him. In the meantime, there isn’t a lot to go on.
My phone pings and I see Maddie’s next email appear in my inbox on the laptop screen.
‘My agent has sent the reverse now,’ I tell Rick, opening the attached image. ‘It’s not easy to read… Does that say Chesney Byrne?’
Rick leans so close I catch the scent of his eau de toilette again. ‘I think so. That name mean anything to you?’
I shake my head but log in to the Foundation database just in case, once again drawing a blank. I open a search window and type his name and the date of birth scrawled beneath it, but there are no hits. That’s odd. When I searched for Faye’s name, I immediately found news articles relating to her disappearance, but Chesney Byrne is drawing a blank. Opening the missingpeople.org site, I search for his name, but the results are either for “Chesney” or “Byrne”, but no “Chesney Byrne”, and no picture that matches the face before us.
Rick sighs in defeat. ‘Not all children who go missing are abducted by evil monsters; some just run away.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m still not buying it. If Faye and Chesney were both actors, then searching for them online would reveal more about them as actors – films or shows they’ve appeared in, websites. The only references to Faye’s name are those relating to her disappearance.’
Rick moves away but he isn’t cross; watching him as he stares into the distance, I know exactly what is on his mind – it happens to the best of us. He’s caught in the mystery, wanting to figure out exactly what’s going on. He suddenly spins on his heel and points at the laptop screen.
‘Search for Chesney online,’ he says.
‘I tried that, but there was no trace.’
‘No,’ he corrects, ‘you searched for his name and date of birth. Search with his face. You can upload the image and the search engine will look for similar matches. If this particular image has appeared anywhere online, the search engine should be able to find it.’
I slide the laptop to the edge of the table and watch as he performs the search. ‘No exact matches,’ he tells me. He expands the search and then a satisfied look creeps across his face and he slides the laptop back to me. ‘There you go.’
The image on the screen isn’t the headshot Maddie has scanned and emailed, but the young face I’m now looking at definitely has an abundance of freckles and the curliest auburn hair I’ve ever seen. Younger here, the Star & Crescent’s image of missing eleven-year-old Cormack Fitzpatrick is a very good likeness.
‘What do you think?’ Rick says. ‘I reckon they’re one and the same. Why don’t you check that missing people site for Cormack Fitzpatrick?’
I do as instructed, and also search for the name on the Foundation database without success. He is listed on the missing people site, along with a phone number for Hampshire Police.
‘Cormack was eleven when he was last seen. Left for school on Friday 1st April 1996, but never arrived. He was known for being a practical joker, and at first his parents thought his disappearance was part of some elaborate prank, but when they still hadn’t heard from him by ten o’clock that night, they phoned the police. He withdrew all his savings the night before his disappearance, and although the police searched local hostels, they couldn’t locate him. The image that’s been sent must be three or four years older, right?’
Rick compares the images again before nodding. ‘Give or take, yeah.’
‘Then who sent the picture to my agent’s office?’
It’s a question neither of us can answer. Rick is hunched over the screen again, studying something intently.
‘And why send them to me? Aside from Faye and Cormack both being missing children, what else connects them? She was from Oldham and disappeared in November 1998, and he was from Gosport and vanished two years earlier. He was on his way to school, and she was on her way home, but I can’t see anything else, other than both their headshots have been sent to me via my agent’s office. And what’s with this particular date? The first image has Faye McKenna’s date of birth on it, but this date isn’t Chesney’s date of birth.’
I clamp my eyes shut as the early embers of a headache smoulder in my temple.
‘Can you see that?’ he whispers after a moment.
I prise my eyes apart and look over to him, where he’s pointing at something on the screen. Stepping closer, I follow his finger to the screen but I can’t focus. ‘What is it?’
He pulls out his phone and types something in. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, it looks like the imprint of a postcode. Can you see? Like someone wrote the postcode on a different piece of paper, but it pressed through to the photograph. It’s very faint, but I’m sure that’s a P, and an O, and possibly the number 11.’
He’s typing the digits into his phone, but I can barely register them on the screen.
‘Maybe whoever sent the picture to you lives at this address,’ Rick suggests. ‘Or maybe whoever lives there might be able to shed some light on who sent the picture of Cormack to you. There’s only really one way to find out,’ he adds, checking his watch.
‘Are you suggesting I go to Portsmouth?’ I clarify.
‘No, I’m suggesting we go to Portsmouth – well, Hayling Island actually, as that’s where the postcode is located.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Then
Hayling Island, Hampshire
The smell of fresh toast woke Joanna, and as the craving grew and her stomach grumbled its discontent, she prised her eyes open and grimaced as soon as she saw the pale green curtains hanging in front of the bolted plastic window. Grey’s arrival at Reverend Peter’s cottage flashed through her mind and the sheer panic that he was going to kill her.
But why hadn’t he killed her? He’d been so open about what he would do to her if she stepped out of line, and she’d gone beyond the brink in making a break for it, so why was she back in the caravan and still alive? Was all his talk of killing before just bravado in front of his friends, or did he have a more severe punishment
in mind for her?
Focusing on the smell of the toasting bread, she pushed back the thin blanket and allowed her nose to guide her along the narrow corridor to the main cabin where she found two plates on the table, along with a tub of butter and a small knife. The door to the small bathroom opened and a girl stepped out. Her thick, dark hair was spiked up and over her head, her eyes were as black as coal, and the silver dress she was squeezed into was practically ripping at the seams, despite her thin frame.
‘I’m Precious,’ she said, moving through to the kitchen and lifting the two slices from the toaster. ‘You must be Kylie, right? You want some toast?’
Precious dropped a slice onto each plate, immediately reaching for the knife and spreading a generous portion of butter over each.
Joanna tucked into the toast but could feel Precious watching her. With the first slice gone, she wiped greasy crumbs from her lips.
‘Someone was hungry,’ Precious commented, standing and moving back into the kitchen, dropping two more slices of bread into the toaster. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
Joanna slowly raised her eyes and simply shrugged. The girl before her had to be at least four or five years older, but wasn’t nearly as tall as Chez, making it difficult to place her exact age. She carried herself with confidence, and didn’t seem fazed by Joanna’s appearance in the caravan. Her accent was from up north somewhere, but Joanna couldn’t begin to guess exactly where.
Precious rolled her eyes. ‘Figures. We should get you cleaned up after breakfast; wash some of that mud from your arms and face.’
Joanna immediately looked down at her forearms, suddenly aware of the brown streaks and blotches of red where Grey had dragged her through the woods. She was still wearing the dress Chez had given her on the first night, and as she trained her nose to ignore the smell of the toasting bread, she became acutely aware of the pong emanating from the lower half of the dress.
Precious carried over the new slices, again depositing one on each plate, before moving to the fridge-freezer and withdrawing a bag of what looked like frozen peas, which she applied to a swelling beneath her right eye.
‘Ar-ar-are you okay?’ Joanna stammered.
Precious narrowed her eyes as if determining whether it was a trick question. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, turning away, but keeping the peas pressed to her face. ‘Walked into a door,’ she said eventually, with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘You know how it is.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Joanna asked, mesmerised.
Precious took a bite of her toast. ‘Best not to think about time while you’re here, or it’ll really drag. Trust me!’
‘Do you miss your home though? Your mum and dad?’
Precious dropped the toast on the plates, growling. ‘I don’t want to talk about any of that. Right? I’m here now, and so are you, and the sooner you put all of that out of yer mind, the better, yeah? I promise it’s easier just to forget yer previous life. Focus on the here and now.’
Joanna ignored the burn of the tears behind her eyes. ‘Where’s Chez? I want to see him.’
Precious narrowed her eyes. ‘He’s gone; that’s all you need to know.’
‘But why? He said he would be like my big brother here. I want to see him.’
‘Well you can’t!’ Precious snapped back. ‘That’s the price to pay for running off like ya did. Chez got in trouble for your antics, and now they’ve dumped you on me instead. Don’t go giving me no trouble, ya hear me? The first sign of trouble and I’ll stick you myself.’
Joanna couldn’t tell whether Precious had meant to pick up the small chopping knife, or whether it had been subconscious, but the threat was clear.
‘I-I-I won’t give you any trouble,’ she said, pulling her knees up to her chest. ‘I-I-I promise.’
Precious seemed to accept her submission and quickly dropped the knife on the table. She reached for a packet of cigarettes on the side and lit one, inhaling and exhaling like a locomotive.
‘You want one?’ she asked when she caught Joanna watching her.
‘I don’t smoke.’
Precious located an empty cup and flicked ash into it, carrying it over to the table and reclaiming her seat. ‘Have you ever tried smoking?’
Joanna shook her head; she’d had enough warnings at school and from her parents about the dangers of smoking and cancer. She coughed as Precious’s smoke drifted across the table.
‘How do ya know whether you like something unless you try it though?’ she said, proffering the cigarette. ‘Go ahead. Give it a puff, and then make yer mind up.’
Joanna didn’t need to put the cigarette between her lips to know she wouldn’t enjoy it. The stench already clinging to her clothes and irritating her throat were enough signs.
‘Put the cigarette in your mouth and suck in,’ Precious demanded, pushing it closer to her.
Joanna thought about the way Precious had held the small knife so tightly and relented, her hand trembling as she took the cigarette between her thumb and index finger. The paper felt damp as it touched her lips, and she took a deep breath, instantly reeling and coughing the smoke back up, relieved when Precious snatched the cigarette back.
‘First inhale’s the worst,’ she said, patting Joanna on the back. ‘It gets easier, I promise. One day yer gonna be grateful to have things like this to distract ya.’
Joanna continued to cough and retch, certain she might bring up the toast, until her breathing returned to a more regular rhythm.
‘Let me know when you want another puff.’ Precious laughed mockingly as she squashed the stub into the cup, and wafted away the remaining cloud of smoke. ‘We should celebrate. My girl Kylie here has just had her first fag.’
She hurried back to the fridge-freezer, tossing the bag of peas inside and removing a half-full bottle of wine from the door. She opened one of the cupboards and withdrew two mugs, placing one in front of Joanna and pouring some of the straw-coloured liquid into it. She repeated the gesture with her own mug, filling it to the top before lifting the mug into the air.
‘A toast. To my new friend Kylie. I’m gonna teach you everything you need to know. Go on, have a drink; it’ll help soothe yer throat after the cigarette.’
Thinking about that chopping knife again, Joanna lifted the mug and clinked it against the other mug as she’d seen her father do countless times, and then held her breath as she sipped the beverage. It was sweeter than she expected.
‘Can I tell you something?’ Joanna tentatively asked.
Precious nodded with a long swig.
‘My name’s not really Kylie; that’s just what Chez decided to call me. My real name is—’
Precious slammed her mug down, wine splashing out on the table. ‘We don’t do real names here, sweetheart. You’re Kylie now, and I’m Precious, and that’s all you need to remember. Right! Now drink your drink, there’s a good girl.’
The room spun as Joanna swished and swayed in time to the music blaring from the radio while Precious did her best to sing along. It wasn’t a song Joanna knew the words to, but she recognised it as an older song, the sort her dad would play on the radio when driving at night when she and her sister should be asleep in the back of the car.
Precious, on the other hand, was managing to get most of the notes right, but the music was too loud for her to be able to hear whether she was actually in tune or not. Not that Joanna cared, as she reached and drained her second mug of the wine and scrambled for the bottle, disappointed to find it now empty.
‘Out of wine,’ she slurred, and then roared with laughter at how difficult it had been to mouth the vowel sounds. ‘I think… Am I a bit drunk? Is this what being drunk feels like?’
Precious reached the crescendo, putting her heart and soul into the final rendition of the chorus and then taking a theatrical bow as Joanna clapped and whooped for her. Precious then collapsed onto the cushioned chair behind the table, panting, and her forehead cloaked in a fine sheen that reflected the overhea
d light.
‘Your turn next,’ Precious wheezed. ‘We can search for other radio stations until we find a song you know. Okay? Like karaoke.’
‘I can’t sing,’ Joanna said now, putting the empty mug to her lips a second time.
‘Of course you can,’ Precious said, her breathing now returning to a regular rhythm. ‘You can do whatever you put your mind to; this place teaches you that. Things I never thought I’d be able to do, I now can. It’s all about perspective. I’ll get us some more wine.’
Precious didn’t appear to be slurring her words, but Joanna couldn’t ignore the feelings of envy starting to bubble up. Precious was so cool and confident, and nothing seemed to faze her. Fresh wine sloshed onto the table once more as Precious continued to dance, pouring more into Joanna’s mug, and then her own.
‘A toast,’ she declared, raising her mug into the air. ‘To my new best friend, Kylie.’
‘Can we go and see Chez?’ Joanna asked.
Precious shook her head. ‘I told you, he’s gone now. Best you put him out of your mind, yeah?’
‘But it wasn’t his fault. I ran off and he shouldn’t be blamed. I had a knife, so there wasn’t anything he could do to stop me.’
‘He was left in charge of you, and he screwed up. I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Let’s change the subject.’
Even through her lightheadedness, Joanna could hear irritation in Precious’s tone.
‘Have you ever kissed a boy?’ Precious asked next.
Joanna dropped her gaze to her lap, where her fingers were fidgeting with nervous energy. She imagined Precious had probably had lots of experience kissing boys, and that was probably what gave her such confidence. Would admitting her lack of experience make Joanna appear immature? She didn’t want to lie to her new friend.
‘It’s okay if you haven’t,’ Precious said, lifting Joanna’s chin with her finger. ‘I’d never kissed a boy before I came here either, and you’re what, ten or eleven, right?’