by M. A. Hunter
Joanna’s heart warmed at the thought that she appeared older than her nine years, and made no effort to correct her.
‘I was twelve when I first had to kiss a boy. I was really nervous and didn’t know if I was doing it right, but then someone showed me how to do it, and then I wasn’t so nervous the next time I had to do it.’
Joanna blew air up to her fringe, trying to cool down as the spinning room picked up speed, and suddenly felt unbearably warm.
‘I could show you what to do,’ Precious offered, sliding closer. ‘It’s how girls learn what to do; they practise with friends they can trust.’
Joanna’s frown deepened. ‘You want to kiss me?’
‘No, I want to show you how to do it properly, so that when you have to do it you won’t mess it up.’
‘But I don’t want to kiss boys. It’s disgusting.’
Precious laughed quietly. ‘I used to think that too, but when you do it right… it can be nice.’
Joanna leaned back, widening the gap between them. ‘Are there other boys here? I mean, I met Chez, but I don’t want to kiss him.’
‘There are others who come and go from time to time.’
‘But is there anyone else who lives here, on this site?’
‘Right now it’s just the two of us – and Grey of course, but you’ve met him, haven’t you?’
Joanna shuddered at the memory of his tongue on her cheek. ‘He scares me.’
‘It’s Mr Brown who you want to be really scared of. Grey is a pussycat most of the time; you just have to do what he says and he’ll leave you alone. I’ll protect you from him if you want me to?’
Joanna nodded.
Precious lifted Joanna’s mug and passed it to her. ‘Very well, I will do that for you, but in return I need you to do this for me. Kissing is just a way people show affection towards one another. Right? Why do you think grown-ups do it so much? Because of how it makes them feel. You might not want to do it, but you’re going to have to at some point. I told Grey I’d help you be ready for that.’ Precious sighed deeply. ‘It’s up to you. Learn with an expert, or go it alone. It’s your choice.’
Joanna pressed the rim of the mug to her lips, and swallowed the chilled liquid, hoping it would cool her now sweltering head. ‘Okay,’ she said, lowering the mug. ‘I’m ready.’
Precious shuffled closer. ‘Good, now first of all I want you to relax. Your shoulders are too tense, and you need to remember this is a perfectly natural situation. Take a deep breath and slowly exhale, feeling your shoulders lower.’
Joanna did as instructed, but her shoulders and neck remained rigid.
‘Kylie, you need to relax. Okay? I’m not making you do anything you don’t want to.’ She took Joanna’s hand in her own. ‘We’re friends now, and you need to trust me and listen to what I’m saying.’
Joanna tried again, breathing deeper and exhaling for longer, allowing her body to yield.
‘Good, now I want you to close your eyes. Not tightly, but just enough that your eyelids join together, as you would when you are going to sleep.’
Joanna allowed her eyes to close, and jerked as she realised she was falling back onto the cushion. She felt Precious moving closer, and her shoulders tensed again as she waited for the impact.
‘Just wet your lips with your tongue, and purse them a bit. This won’t hurt.’
Joanna’s toes wouldn’t stop making fists on the carpet tiles, and her stilted breaths weren’t helping her rapidly rising heartbeat, and as she smelled Precious closing in she retched, only just managing to avoid throwing up all over Precious, but the floor didn’t escape unscathed.
‘Ooh, gross!’ Precious exclaimed, sliding away and then heading into the kitchen to collect a roll of kitchen paper.
‘I-I-I’m so sorry,’ Joanna slurred, a claw-like ache digging its sharp nails into every crevice of her brain. ‘I-I don’t feel very well,’ she concluded, tears rushing to escape her eyes.
‘All you need is some fresh air,’ Precious said, hoisting Joanna off the cushion, draping an arm over her shoulders and half-dragging her to the caravan door. ‘I swear to God if this is some elaborate escape plan, you’d better rethink it; I’m not so easy to fool as Chez. If it comes down to a choice between saving you or myself, I’m looking after number one. You get me?’
Joanna welcomed the breeze and drizzle on her face as they made it down the steps and onto the wet grass. ‘Please tell me where they’ve taken Chez. He shouldn’t be punished for what I did.’
‘Oh my God! Will you stop banging on about Chez? He’s gone; you won’t see him again. Forget about him.’
‘No, we need to speak to Grey. You can explain that it was my fault, and if someone should be sent away, it’s me and not him.’
‘Oh my God! Why can’t you get this through yer thick head? Chez is gone. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. They killed him cos of what you did last night. Don’t you get it yet? These are bad men here. You want to survive, then you do as they say. You screw up and they put you in the ground and find the next one to take your place.’
Joanna crashed to the floor as Precious released her arm in disgust, and the claw in her head dug deeper. They’d killed Chez because of her, and she would never forgive herself.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Now
M27, Hampshire
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ I ask, staring up the narrow, tree-lined lane.
‘This is the postcode I jotted down,’ Rick replies. ‘Let me see the image on your phone again. Maybe if I zoom in I can check it.’
I pass him the phone, double-checking the satnav system hasn’t made a huge error, but it is definitely indicating we’ve reached our destination. We’ve pulled into a small car park linked to a tiny church and adjacent vicarage.
‘I’ve checked online and the postcode covers more than just this road. I think this just happens to be the start of the postcode. Maybe there are more residential streets further along. I think I saw a sign for a campsite pointing this way, so maybe this Chesney’s or Cormack’s family lived there.’
I shake my head. ‘No, the article I read said his family were from Gosport, not Hayling Island.’
He is studying the imprinted postcode again. ‘Well, maybe I misinterpreted these digits. It’s definitely a PO11 at the start, but after that maybe what I thought was a 0RT is in fact a 0PT; it’s so hard to tell without seeing the original. You said your agent copied the image and emailed it, right? Does that mean she has the original that we could look at?’
‘Yes, she’ll still have it, but she’s working in London, and having come this far I really don’t want to wait for her to post it down.’
He passes me the phone back. ‘What do you think: is it an R or a P?’
I squint at the screen, squeezing my fingers out to enlarge the picture as much as the phone screen will allow, but it’s just blurred pixels at this range. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say it’s an R, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility it is a P. I just don’t know.’
‘Could we phone your agent and see if she can maybe zoom in on the impression? Or maybe we could ask her to take a rubbing using tracing paper or something. Then we’d know for sure whether it’s an R or a P.’
It’s better than just sitting here wondering. If it is a P then we’re in the wrong place. Locating Maddie’s office number I dial it, and am relieved when she answers on the third ring. I put it on speakerphone so Rick will be able to hear directly.
‘Maddie, hi, it’s Emma, how are you?’
‘Up to my neck at the moment, Emma. Is it urgent or can I call you back later?’
‘Have you still got that photograph of Chesney Byrne?’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just I need to check something.’
‘Sure, hold on,’ she says, and I hear her fumbling on her desk, before coming back on the line. ‘Okay, yes, I’ve got it. Do you want me to send it down to you? I’m not sure I can get to the post office today, but tomorrow looks—
’
‘No, it’s not about that,’ I interrupt. ‘I mean, yes, please do send it down when you get a minute, but can you check something on the original for me? On the back of the photograph near where the date is written, we think there is something that looks like a postcode imprinted. Can you see it?’
‘Hold on, I’ll have to put on my glasses… Oh, yes, there it is. Ha! I wouldn’t have known that was there unless you’d pointed it out. How on earth did you find that?’
I look up to Rick, but don’t acknowledge the question. ‘Can you read what you think it says? I’ve got the PO11 bit, but trying to figure out the rest.’
Maddie is making an unusual array of noises as she tries to find an answer for us, and I can picture her taking it in turns to put her nose on the page, before turning it towards the light coming through her small office window, and then back again. ‘I think it’s 0RT, but it really is very faint. Perhaps even the T could be a P. I’m sorry, Emma, but it’s so difficult to tell for certain. If you pushed me, I’d agree with 0RT, but I’m no expert.’
‘Okay, thanks, Maddie, I appreciate you taking a look.’
‘Can’t you just Google his name and date of birth?’
‘I’ve done that already and found him, but the date written isn’t his date of birth.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, I’ll send the original down first thing anyway. What’s the significance of this postcode business? Do you think that’s where he’s being held?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Maddie. There’s not many properties here, but you never know.’
‘Okay, well, don’t do anything dangerous. You still haven’t sent me the copyedits of Trafficked yet, so I don’t want any harm coming to my favourite client.’
‘I’m quite certain I’m safe here, but I appreciate your concern, Maddie.’
‘Have you figured out who’s sending you these pictures yet?’
‘Not yet, but I’m working on it. Thanks again, Maddie. Speak soon.’
I disconnect the call and look sceptically at Rick. ‘What do you think then?’
He sits back in his chair, pressing his hair into the headrest but keeping his eyes on me. He’s about to respond when my phone rings again with a number I don’t recognise.
‘Can I speak to… Emma Hunter, please?’ a woman’s voice says.
‘Speaking.’
‘Hi, I’m Detective Constable Caroline Knox, calling from Greater Manchester Police. You left a message saying you had information about the disappearance of Faye McKenna?’
‘Oh, um… Yeah, that’s right… Well, not exactly new information… Um…’
Her voice is soft but I instantly sense an element of frustration in her tone. ‘Well, you either do or you don’t.’
I wish Rick wasn’t next to me right now, able to overhear every word. ‘Sorry, let me explain. I’m a writer, um, and I specialise in missing children cases. On Friday I was sent a picture of Faye McKenna out of the blue, and I guess I thought I should inform someone about it.’
‘I see. What can you tell me about the photograph? How do you know it’s of Faye McKenna?’
‘Her name and date of birth were written on the back of the image. I looked her up online and that’s how I got your number. I can forward you a copy of the image if that would help?’
‘Sure, it can’t hurt.’
‘Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions about the case? I looked online, but couldn’t see much other than she went missing on her return from school.’
‘I’m sorry, Emma, I can’t share details of an open investigation with members of the public.’
‘Absolutely, I understand that, and I’ve signed numerous Non-Disclosure Agreements with the Met Police in London when I’ve helped them with open investigations. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’ I cringe at the line but I want to stress that I’m not just looking for sordid details; I want to help.
‘Sorry, I can’t say I have.’
At least she can’t see my cheeks burning.
‘I’m trying to figure out who might have sent me the picture. I’d say Faye looks older than she does in the images used on her missingpeople.org page, so I wondered whether her mum might have had her aged using software, and it was her way of reaching out and asking for my help.’
‘Unlikely. Mrs McKenna died two and a bit years ago.’
‘Oh, I see. Is it possible that someone else in the immediate family could have sent it instead then? I read that Faye didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and that her dad wasn’t on the scene, but are you in touch with him, or maybe any uncles or aunts of Faye?’
DC Knox sighs. ‘Faye’s case remains open, but after Mrs McKenna passed, nobody has been in touch with us to ask about Faye – until you, that is. We will continue to review the case every couple of years, as we do with all our cold cases, but unless new evidence comes to light, there’s little chance of us ever finding out what happened to Faye.’
I picture Faye’s face in my mind. ‘Do you know if Faye ever did any acting at school or in her spare time?’
‘I’m not sure. Why?’
‘The picture I was sent – it’s going to sound silly, but – it resembles a headshot like actors would use when requesting auditions for parts, and I wondered whether… I don’t know what I wondered really.’
‘Listen, Emma, I wasn’t involved in the case originally, so I don’t know all the ins and outs of it. Send me the image and I will add it to the file along with your number, and when it next comes up for review, someone can contact you and provide an update.’
I know the drill, I don’t say.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about Faye or the picture you were sent?’ DC Knox asks, bringing the call to an end.
‘No, I don’t think so. Is there an email address I can forward the image to?’
She dictates one to me and then hangs up.
‘Any luck?’ Rick asks quizzically.
‘No,’ I reply, sighing heavily. ‘Faye doesn’t have any next of kin who would have been likely to send the picture, which puts us back to square one on who and why it was sent to me.’
Frustrated, I push open the door and clamber out. My legs are grateful for the movement, and I welcome the rush of fresh air as the branches sway overhead. The car park is barely large enough to fit more than half a dozen cars, and is probably here primarily for the use of those visiting the adjacent cemetery.
‘Why don’t we go for a wander,’ Rick suggests, climbing out and stretching his aching muscles. ‘Maybe we’ll run into someone who can tell us more about Chesney whatever his name is.’
There’s that positivity again, but in fairness a stretch of our legs is probably a good idea after the two-hour car journey. I certainly could do with burning off the calories we filled up on from the crisps and biscuits we both consumed on the way here. Locking the car, Rick leads us back to the main road, and I can immediately see there is a smattering of properties nearby, which were obscured by tall bushes and our low centre of gravity in Rick’s car.
‘Which way do you want to go?’ he asks.
The thought of knocking on all of the doors and asking whether the residents have heard of Chesney Byrne doesn’t feel like a good use of our time, but the road is empty of passers-by and very well may remain that way for the foreseeable future.
‘We could do with a list of names of everyone who lives within the postcode,’ I say aloud, though not sure where the thought is headed. ‘Maybe we’d then see a name that somehow links to Chesney.’
I know I’m clutching at straws, and I now regret us making this journey on such a whim. It was Rick’s idea, but I should have known better than just to go along with it. We could have researched the area, or reached out to the local police and explained who I was and what I’d received, as I did with DC Knox in Manchester.
‘I don’t think they make a phone directory by postcode, but we could always ask at the church and see if there is a list of local paris
hioners. It’s a start.’
I exhale loudly, but nod my head and follow Rick as he leads me out of the car park and in through the wooden gate. It really is a pretty church, set close to the road, and surrounded by a small collection of evergreen trees. I imagine on a sunny day it would be so picturesque – ideal for a wedding for those inclined to celebrate in a church.
‘It’s all closed up,’ I observe.
‘Yeah, but there’s a small house adjoining at the back. You see?’ He points around the side of the brick building. ‘Let’s try there and see if the name rings any bells inside.’
Rick leads the way and rings the rusty bell hanging from the wall outside the paint-chipped wooden door. It is opened a minute or so later by a woman in a black collared shirt with glasses perched on the end of her nose. She considers Rick and me before closing the small book she’s carrying. The salt-and-pepper streaks in her otherwise dark bob put her older than me, but younger than my mother.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ she asks.
‘Hi,’ I say, ‘we’ve travelled from Weymouth because we’re looking for someone who might know a man called Chesney Byrne, or a Cormack Fitzpatrick. He went missing when he was an adolescent several years ago, but we have reason to believe he has links to this postal code. I don’t suppose you recognise the name?’
Her blank expression doesn’t change. ‘I’m sorry, no, I don’t recognise the name.’
Pulling out my phone, I share the image that Maddie sent down. ‘Does his face seem familiar in any way? I’d estimate he would look older than this now.’
She accepts my phone and studies the screen. ‘I’m ever so sorry, but no, I can’t say it rings any bells. I’ve been the reverend here for three years and I certainly don’t recognise him. Could he be the relative of one of the parishioners perhaps? Is there anything else you can tell me about him? What does he do for a living, for example?’
I don’t doubt that she is keen to help us, but coming here is another dead end.
‘I don’t suppose you can tell me the name of your predecessor, can you?’ I ask next.
