by K. L. Slater
He says there’s no pressure but I can feel it like a ten-tonne truck pushing at my back. We have to make people like us, have to let them know how we’re suffering without Grace, or we might not win over public opinion.
And it’s me they’ll be judging. I’ve seen these appeals on television, watched the mother closely for signs of true grief and devastation. I’ve asked myself if she was in any way responsible for her child going missing. Negligent or lax.
A young woman with a BBC lanyard around her neck peers around the screen, glances at me and then addresses DI Pearlman.
‘We’re ready for you now,’ she says.
Back at the house, Nadine meets us at the door.
‘How did it go? I’m sure you were brilliant, Blake, darling.’
DI Pearlman is quietly optimistic as he leads us cleverly past Nadine and into the living room.
‘You both came across brilliantly. Intelligent and devastated,’ he enthuses, as if we might be up for an award. ‘HQ said the phones were ringing off the desks, which is exactly what we hope for in these cases.’
‘I suppose you get a lot of crank calls,’ Blake says morosely.
‘Sure. But we’ll also get valuable information, if we’re lucky. You’d be surprised at the number of people who’ve been away, or work shifts and don’t catch the news. Suddenly, something they’ve seen and thought nothing of can be the missing piece of our jigsaw.’
‘Let’s pray that’s the case,’ Nadine sighs. ‘It sounds like you both did a good job.’
I know I must have looked like a rabbit frozen in headlights in that studio. I tried my best to express how our lives have crumbled without Grace, how we can’t sleep, can’t eat, how we’re stuck in limbo just waiting for news. But it just seemed to come out as senseless babble. And I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry in a sterile atmosphere that didn’t even seem real.
If tears from a suffering mother move the hearts of the general public, then I failed.
Blake was eloquent. In response to a probing question from a national newspaper, he explained that yes, it was true we’d allowed Grace to make a very short walk home alone, but that we’d put monitoring plans in place that we’d genuinely thought were failsafe. We were caught out.
‘I know every parent out there has made a decision in haste that they now regret. But in our case, we’ve paid the ultimate price. We’ve lost our daughter, our reason for living.’ He paused, reaching for my hand before carrying on, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘From the bottom of my heart I plead with everyone watching to please, please help us to find Grace.’
Even the press fell quiet for a moment or two, such was the poignancy of my husband’s words.
When the detective has left and Blake has gone off to make some calls, Fiona comes in, her arms full of mail. Different colours, sizes of envelope, all jumbled into a haphazard pile that threatens to spill over at any moment.
‘From well-wishers,’ she says sadly as she offloads it on to the coffee table in the middle of the room. ‘You’ve got a lot of support out there, Lucie love, remember that.’
My eyes prickle.
Fiona sits next to me. ‘I can help you look through this stuff,’ she says gently. ‘Most people are lovely and can’t do enough to help, but we do occasionally get trolls, vicious types who want to make you suffer more than you are already. If that’s even possible.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll just open a few, and if there are any nasty communications, I’ll set them aside.’ Oscar is still sleeping and I can take my time looking through the mail.
The truth is, for all that Fiona is trying her best to help, I’d rather just be alone right now in my misery. I’m tired of everyone looking at me like they’re so sorry for me. I don’t want sympathy, I want news about Grace.
‘Dr Mahmoud has been in touch. He wants to come and see you again, see if there’s anything he can do to—’
‘I don’t need to see him!’ I feel so frustrated with all this fuss over me. It’s Grace that matters. She’s the only thing that matters to us.
Fiona nods and squeezes my arm. ‘I’m just in the kitchen catching up on paperwork if you need me.’ She gives Nadine a look and my mother-in-law sniffs and reluctantly follows her out of the room.
They close the door behind me and I feel the sore, contracted muscles in my chest and arms relax a little. You’d think that in such terrible circumstances as these, you wouldn’t care what people think. That you’d just break down and not give a stuff who sees you.
But in reality, you try and keep it together, develop a shell, albeit a fragile one, where you observe generally reasonable behaviour and strive to hide your true feelings.
Now, alone again at last, I can let the pain resurface.
I rub my wet face with the backs of my hands and reach for a handful of envelopes. I can see that most of these are cards. I open a couple and they are sweet and genuine. One card with a horse on breaks my heart. It’s from a girl who attends Grace’s riding school.
Dear Grace,
I heard you are missing and I hope you are OK. I have told your horse you will be back home soon and I will look after her for you until you ride her again.
Love,
Macy Price xx
There are other cards from people who live on Violet Road, expressing regret and wishing they could help in some way.
I shuffle through the pile and spot an envelope that looks too thin to be a card. Fiona’s warning about trolls rings in my ears and gingerly I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open. Inside is a scrap of notepaper.
Lucinda,
I know you’ll be terribly worried right now. But I know something you don’t know. So don’t worry about Grace. Remember the old email? You might want to log in.
I drop the note as if it’s scalding my fingers.
Nobody has called me Lucinda for years. Only one person has ever called me that. That tone, that style of speech; it’s unmistakeable… to me, anyway.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It can’t be him. It just can’t.
I never thought for a second that Grace going missing would have anything to do with Stefan O’Hara.
I didn’t even think it was possible, given what happened to him.
Fifty-Four
I pick up the note and read it again. The paper quivers in my hand.
That name – Lucinda – spoken in a voice that is forever seared into the darkest corners of my mind. Details I’ve tried so hard to file away forever.
I tip my head to the side, listening. I can hear Blake’s deep voice coming from the closed kitchen door. Clinking crockery as someone makes tea. I think I’ll be left undisturbed for a few more minutes.
I grab my phone from the bedside table and google the contact number for the Queen’s Medical Centre.
I can remember the ward. I can remember Stefan O’Hara lying there, helpless for the first time in his life. Unable to move any part of his body apart from his head.
I shudder now as I pace the length of the room, back and forth. That day I saw him in that hospital bed, I felt, for the first time, that I had a chance to seize my power back at last.
My head thumps with fresh pain and I pick up the note and screw it into a ball.
I ring the hospital and the receptionist puts me through to the ward. A hassled-sounding woman answers.
‘I know it’s a long shot,’ I say, speaking quietly but clearly, ‘but I wonder if anyone can help me find out about my friend who was a long-term patient on Ward 6 nine years ago?’
‘Goodness, nine years! I wasn’t here then, but maybe I can find someone who was. What’s the patient’s name?’
‘Stefan O’Hara.’ It takes a huge effort to utter his name. It’s something I’d assumed I’d never have to do again. ‘He was paralysed after a car accident, had to stay in the hospital for weeks. I’ve been out of the area for a long time and I’m trying to trace him.’
‘Hold the line.’ The call clicks o
n to a cranky electronic recorded track that sounds like a creepy circus ride.
My heart is racing now. I’m racking my brain to think what to say if the door opens and Blake or Fiona comes in.
After a few minutes, she’s back.
‘Someone does remember him vaguely, but he didn’t stay here long. He was transferred to the Royal Victoria Hospital in Newcastle.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
It’s a start.
But there’s something else I need to do while I can. I slide my laptop out from underneath the couch. I haven’t touched it since Grace went missing.
Remember the old email? You might want to log in.
When I was at university, all students were allocated email addresses on the server. Back then, data protection was not a hot topic and there were rumours that the university snooped on the content of students’ mail.
Stefan had a friend who was an IT expert, and he set the two of us up with email addresses that we only used for communicating with each other. We used to joke about it, but it felt secret and exciting to be able to send anything to each other: racy photographs, jokes and gossip about other people in our friendship circle…
It makes me feel sick now, of course, just to think of that stuff. But it was a different time back then. I didn’t know who Stefan O’Hara really was.
When the laptop finally cranks into life, I open up a new window and tap in the web address to access the email. It’s so long since I’ve done this, I’m fully prepared for the link no longer to exist.
But it is there.
Thank goodness the address and the password are so memorable, I think as I add the necessary details.
The screen whirrs and flickers, and then there it is: my old private student inbox.
There is a single email, from someone calling himself ‘Back from the Dead’, which I assume is his idea of a joke. With shaking hands, I open it. A photo loads. As it fills the screen, I cry out.
It is a picture of a single yellow glove. Grace’s glove. I can see the edge of the name label I sewed in there at the start of the school term.
Underneath the photograph is a message:
We come as a package. If you want her, then you must meet with me. Alone. Check back here tomorrow for instructions. Don’t breathe a word, or I tell them everything. I have nothing to lose.
I read the email again. The words explode like bombs in my head. My whole body is trembling. Half of me processes the horror of what he means; the other half pushes it away.
I listen for a moment, and when I’m satisfied that Fiona’s not about to burst in, I type a hurried reply.
Grace is diabetic. She has insulin, please let her use it.
I feel numb. Terrified. Most of all, I feel completely alone in facing the enormity of what has just happened.
I log out and shut the laptop quickly and push it under the sofa. I don’t want to give Fiona or the detectives the idea of forensically examining its contents.
I let out a long, slow breath.
I will follow up with the hospital in Newcastle, but this is evidence enough. Stefan must somehow have recovered from his paralysis. Or maybe he got someone else to help him abduct Grace. Regardless, there’s no doubt he has her. And I know, more than anyone, he’s clearly unstable.
I shiver. Grace must be terrified.
Yet I can’t tell another soul about his email.
Don’t breathe a word, or I tell them everything.
He means business; he’s already approached Bev to show me how easy it would be for him to ruin all our lives.
If I tell the police, I’ll have to explain our whole history together. I’ll have to convey just how dangerous he is and the extreme lengths he’d be willing to go to.
I can just imagine the protracted questioning, the investigation boxes that would need to be ticked… the valuable time that will be wasted.
If I meet with Stefan myself, I can make him see sense. I know I can.
The joy of knowing my daughter is alive is almost enough to override everything else. It gives me hope, a determination to succeed.
He holds a final secret so powerful, he could wreck my life in moments.
I have no choice but to meet him alone.
Fifty-Five
‘Are you OK, Luce?’ Blake steps away so he can give me a long look of consideration. ‘You’re so quiet and… Is anything wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I say. ‘Apart from my whole world falling to pieces.’
‘I know, stupid question.’ This man, who has so much energy and is usually so full of life, looks tired. Beaten. It’s in my power to help him deal with what’s happened, but I can only do that by destroying him.
I feel an utter fraud. I know our daughter is with the most loathsome man I have ever met, but she is alive. I believe she is alive. And if I play along with Stefan’s sick little game, I can get her back.
I know I can.
I wish I could speak to Blake. I wish I could tell him everything I know.
But it is best for everyone concerned – especially Grace - that I say nothing.
I tell Blake I’m going to sleep in Oscar’s room.
‘It makes no sense for both of us to be exhausted if he wakes,’ I tell him. ‘I won’t sleep anyway, so I might as well volunteer.’
He nods without comment. Perhaps part of him senses I need some space. Perhaps he, too, is glad of the time alone with his thoughts.
I slide into the cool sheets of the little-used spare single bed and listen to my son’s regular, light breathing pattern.
Getting through the television appeal and yet another day without Grace; there were times today I didn’t think I’d make it. I’ve had to block thoughts from my mind – particularly the revelations of my visit to Barbara Charterhouse. But now I can revisit what happened, digest her words and absorb what it means to me. To my life…
‘I’ve known your hidden past for a long time, my dear.’ The sound of the tea pouring from the teapot spout echoed in my ears. ‘I’ve marvelled how you’ve managed to keep it all inside.’
I stared blankly at the cup and saucer she places in front of me, then I looked up into the face of Barbara Charterhouse. I thought about the times she’s nodded to me at some community even, her cryptic comments at the café…
I found I couldn’t actually say anything in response. I couldn’t ask her what she meant by what she just said; I couldn’t object, stand up or leave. I was simply struck by a mute fear of what she might know.
Surely it couldn’t be anything to do with my past life in Newcastle. It couldn’t be.
‘I haven’t a clue what you mean.’ Somehow, I managed to keep my voice level and meet her eyes.
She smiled, nodded and ran a finger along the lip of her cup.
‘You know, many moons ago, I owned my own bed and breakfast business. It was quite successful, but after a couple of years I hit a sort of ceiling. I’d grown the business as much as I was able, which was fine. I was happy there.’ She paused and smiled to herself. ‘And then I met Harold.’
I breathed a small sigh of relief. It sounded as though she knew nothing of my past after all, thank goodness, and I now doubted her comment at the café, about Blake’s facade, could be anything more than a spiteful slur with no substance.
‘Harold, believe it or not, was hotly ambitious in those days, and he saw great opportunity in a certain area of Newcastle, where the student population was experiencing exponential growth.’
Freezing cold fingers unfurled at the bottom of my spine and commenced a slow crawl up each and every vertebra.
She watched my face carefully as she continued.
‘Harold had some money, compensation for a car accident he’d been involved in. I had a bit put aside too, so we sold the B&B and bought a splendid but faded Victorian villa on the outskirts of Newcastle.’
Goose bumps clustered on my forearms as Barbara smiled and nodded slowly, as if she could sense everything that was ha
ppening inside me. The sick feeling, the panic, the rush of blood to my head. I was trying so hard to remain poker-faced.
‘The house needed renovating top to bottom, but we did virtually nothing because the place filled with student tenants within a month. These were young people who expected very little and were perfectly happy if you let them alone.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I managed, but she continued as if I hadn’t spoken a word.
‘Harold and I didn’t interfere so long as they paid their rent and took out their rubbish regularly. We didn’t live on site, you see, and so we found it fairly easy to turn a blind eye to everything else. And I can tell you, even though I’m ashamed of our lax morals back then, that made our accommodation very popular indeed.’
She couldn’t possibly know. She couldn’t! Lax morals were one thing, but if she knew a girl had died there, surely she’d have gone to the police a long time ago?
I felt like I was overheating; being so near the fire was going to literally cook me if I didn’t take off my coat. I wriggled my arms out and slipped it from my shoulders.
She waited until I became still again before speaking.
‘Although we didn’t live there, we spent a lot of time at the house during the week. Harold would do the maintenance jobs, which were never-ending, and I’d dust and vacuum the common areas.’
Stefan’s voice rang in my head as if he was standing right next to me again.
We’ll keep out of the lounge area; that nosy old battleaxe is cleaning in there.
‘One day it came to our attention that the students were talking about some kind of incident that had happened upstairs. They were joking and laughing about it in the communal lounge, but Harold became concerned when he heard reference to an awful crime having taken place.’
