My Little Girl Read online

  ‘We spoke to the cops about this already.’ He takes a long final drag of his cigarette before tossing it onto the grass and grinding out the butt with the toe of his trainer.

  ‘I know, but maybe you remembered something since then.’ I wrap my arms around myself, wondering at the strangeness of life and how I’ve found myself talking to a teenage fairground worker on a Tuesday morning. A stranger who might even hold my future happiness in his hand.

  ‘I didn’t see anything at all. Wish I did. Wish I could help.’

  I’m not deterred by his insistence. ‘She was wearing a red dress with frills around the hem, she’s got long, dark hair, and she’s about this tall.’ I hold my hand out to indicate her height.

  ‘Like I told the cops, it gets busy here, especially on a Saturday. There’s kids all over the place. I don’t remember seeing a girl like that. They showed me her photo, so I know what she looks like.’ He scratches his arm. ‘Sorry.’

  My body wilts as I realise everyone here is going to say the same thing.

  ‘I’d tell you if I’d seen her,’ he assures me. ‘I’ve got a little sister and I’d kill anyone who did anything to her. Sorry, not that anyone’s done anything to your kid…’ He turns scarlet.

  ‘It’s okay, I know what you mean.’

  ‘I’m Kai, by the way.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ll get Monty. Hope you find your kid.’ He points behind me. ‘Go down to the entrance, I’ll get him to meet you there.’

  Five minutes later, Monty Burridge comes striding up to the gate, wearing what looks like the same checked shirt and chinos as the last time I saw him. He sniffs and runs a hand over closely cropped grey hair without giving me any eye contact. He seems younger today than when I last saw him, I’d guess somewhere around his mid-fifties.

  He sniffs again before finally looking at me. ‘Kai said you wanted a word.’

  ‘Yes please, I’m Claire Nolan. I was here on Satur—’

  ‘I know who you are. So they haven’t found her yet, your daughter?’

  ‘Not yet, no. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’ He frowns and puts his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels.

  ‘I just wondered if I might talk to your staff – the ones who were here on Saturday. See if they might have remembered anything.’

  He gives me an appraising look. ‘I feel for you, Claire, I really do, but my workers have already spoken to the police several times. I’ve had them in to the office to speak to me too, and unfortunately none of them remembers seeing your daughter. I wish we could help.’

  ‘Surely it couldn’t hurt for me to have another word with them? If they remember the tiniest detail it could help.’

  ‘I’d rather you leave it to the police. You should go back home and wait for her there. I’m sure she’ll be found soon enough.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t got any children,’ I snap, annoyed that he thinks I’d be content to sit around at home while my daughter’s out here somewhere.

  ‘I’ve got four of my own, plus two grandkids. So I do have the greatest sympathy for what you must be going through. But I stand by what I said – leave it to the police. Now, where are you parked? Do you want me to let you out through the front gate, save you walking all the way around?’

  It’s obvious he’s desperate to get me to leave, but I’m not ready to go just yet. ‘I don’t suppose I could have a glass of water, could I? I’m not feeling too good.’

  His jaw tightens, but he nods. ‘I’ll get Kai to bring you one.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, faking weakness and heading over to a wooden picnic bench in front of a food stand. I sit and watch him walk off, soon losing sight of him beyond the rides. A youngish blonde woman comes out from one of the covered stalls carrying a black rubbish bag. She catches my eye and I give her a nod. She heads off towards the playing field, and I jump to my feet, catching up to her.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she mutters without turning to look at me.

  ‘My name’s Claire Nolan, I’m the mother of the girl who went missing.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Her voice is curt, emotionless.

  ‘Just wondering if I could have a quick word with you about Saturday night.’ I’m having to jog to keep up with her long strides.

  ‘I already told the cops what I know, which is nothing.’ She glances at me quickly. Her voice softens. ‘I’d tell you if I saw anything, honestly.’

  ‘Someone had to have seen something. Did none of your colleagues see anything, anything at all? Surely someone did.’

  ‘Claire!’ I turn at the sound of my name being called. It’s Kai, back at the food stand waving a plastic cup of what I assume is water.

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman says. ‘Monty’ll get pissed off if he sees me talking to you. He doesn’t want any trouble.’

  I nod and pull one of my business cards from my purse. ‘If you hear anything at all, please give me a call, any time of the day or night. Doesn’t matter how trivial you think it is.’

  She nods and puts the card in the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Hope you find her.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I turn back and give Kai a wave. He’s already started across the playing field to meet me.

  ‘Monty said you wanted some water. Sorry, I’ve spilt half of it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I don’t make any move to take the cup.

  ‘What were you doing going after Sam? She doesn’t like talking to anyone, especially not strangers.’

  ‘I was just asking if she’d seen my daughter.’

  ‘Monty won’t be happy. He told me to make sure you left. He’ll get seriously annoyed with me if you don’t go. Here…’ He holds out the drink.

  This time I take it and sip the lukewarm liquid, forcing myself to finish it. ‘Thanks.’

  He takes the empty cup and folds his arms across his chest.

  I drop my shoulders. ‘Okay, I’m going.’

  Kai nods and stays where he is as I head back towards the car. I look over my shoulder once to see him still there, arms crossed like a skinny bouncer on a nightclub door.

  Finally back at the car, I get in and sit for a moment before starting up the engine. What a waste of time that was. What do I do now? I don’t feel like going back to my empty home. I’m too keyed up. I wish I had the nerve to sneak back to the fair and find some more employees to speak to, but I worry that Monty will spot me and get angry. That he’ll call the police or maybe his own security. I’ll have to be clever about this and maybe go back later once the fair’s in full swing. When I’ll have a better chance of blending in with the crowds.

  For now, I’ve had an idea of exactly where I need to go.

  Twenty-One

  CLAIRE

  Twenty minutes later, I’m turning into the narrow country lane that leads to River Way Farm. Sitting just outside Christchurch in the little village of Hurn, it feels a world away from my life back in town. As my Toyota bumps down the farm track, the farm comes into view – a sprawling mass of white-painted buildings. The original house dates back to the seventeenth century, but it’s had various additions over the years.

  My arrival heralds a chorus of barking and as I step outside the car, I’m greeted by a pair of energetic border collies along with a much calmer golden retriever. ‘Hello, Charlie, hi Timmy.’ I stoop to stroke the two collies. ‘And I haven’t forgotten you, Bess.’ I scratch behind the ancient golden retriever’s ears. Freya’s Land Rover isn’t out front, so I’m hoping she’s actually here. I should probably have called ahead. This is her family’s farm and she lives here with her parents, who are just about the loveliest people on the planet.

  I felt the urge to come over and chat things through with Freya. She’ll know what to do for the best. Even if she doesn’t, it will be nice to talk to someone other than Ollie. Someone who isn’t as emotionally tangled up in it all. Of course Freya loves Beatrice, but not like Ollie and me, which means she can be more obj
ective right now. That’s what I need. Some clarity.

  The kitchen door opens and Freya’s mum steps outside, shading her eyes against the late-morning sun. ‘Claire!’ She shakes her head and holds out her arms. Lynn Collins is as un-farmer-like as you can imagine. Like her daughter, she’s petite and dark-haired and looks as though she would snap in a strong breeze. The reality is that she’s tough and incredibly hard-working and is the least breakable woman I know.

  I straighten up from petting the dogs and walk over to give her a hug. ‘Hi, Lynn.’

  ‘Oh, love, we were absolutely devastated to hear about Beatrice. Is there any news?’

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak in the glow of such warmth and comfort.

  She steps back and holds my face, scrutinising me. ‘You look peaky. Come inside. Trevor’s just popped in for his mid-morning cuppa and I’ve taken a fresh batch of scones out of the oven. There’s some lovely damson jam from last year that I’ve been saving. You need to keep your strength up. Come in, love, come on.’

  Lynn ushers me into their bright kitchen where her husband is sitting at a cluttered table reading a farming magazine, a huge mug of tea in front of him. He looks up.

  ‘Hello, Claire. How you holding up? Such a bad business with your little one. We’ve been thinking about you.’ He sets his magazine down on the table.

  In stark contrast to his wife, Trevor Collins is the stereotypical image of a farmer, with a broad frame, ruddy cheeks and shovel-like hands. River Way Farm has been in his family for six generations. Their two sons aren’t remotely interested in River Way – Liam’s in London doing something in IT and James is a perpetual traveller, currently working his way around the world as a deckhand on a luxury yacht. Freya, however, has farming running through her veins and is poised to take over the business once her dad retires, which he’s been threatening to do for the past five years, but none of us believe he ever will.

  Lynn starts transferring the scones from the baking tray onto a wire cooling rack. ‘Freya’s up in the top field. I’ll give her a call to come down.’

  I sit at the table and we make small talk while we wait. Neither of her parents asks any more questions about Beatrice or the search. Instead, they enquire after my parents and Oliver, and ask about my work, which is a nice, brief respite from my hellish new reality.

  I tell Lynn and Trevor that my parents have been checking in with me several times a day, and are on standby to fly down from Scotland as soon as I say the word. I obviously don’t tell them that my husband isn’t coping at all. Instead, I mutter that he’s as well as can be expected. Work feels like the safest topic, so I witter on about mortgages, pensions and life insurance for the next ten minutes or so – probably boring them senseless – until the door bursts open and Freya comes in, her eyes wide, her usual shiny brown bob scraped back into a short ponytail. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Hi, Frey. Not yet.’

  Her shoulders sag. ‘Oh, well it’s lovely to see you. How are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug. ‘The same really. I went back to the fair today to see if I could find out anything else about what might have happened, talked to some people who work there.’

  ‘And?’ Freya goes over to the sink and starts washing her hands.

  I tell them all about my morning while Lynn doles out the warm scones and sets pots of jam and thick clotted cream on the table.

  ‘What about that Holloway fella?’ Trevor asks.

  ‘Who?’ I cut my scone in half and spread on some cream and a smear of jam.

  ‘Alfie, one of our labourers, mentioned him this morning.’ Trevor takes a gulp of his tea. ‘Can’t remember the man’s first name.’

  Freya shakes her head. ‘Dad, Claire doesn’t want to hear any gossip or rumours about all this.’

  My senses sharpen. Rumours always originate from somewhere. Could this be the information I’ve been waiting for? ‘No, that’s okay, Freya, I’d like to know what people are saying.’

  Freya gives her dad a glare, but he shrugs. ‘What? I’m only saying what I heard.’

  ‘So what did you hear?’ I’m tense as a bowstring, my heart racing.

  Trevor takes a sip of tea and leans back in his chair. ‘Well, Alfie said that apparently this Holloway chap was at the fair at the same time your Beatrice went missing.’

  ‘So? Who is he? Why would that matter?’

  ‘He used to be the choirmaster at one of the local churches.’

  I frown. ‘Used to be?’

  ‘He resigned last year under a cloud of suspicion. It was on the local news.’

  ‘Nothing was ever proven,’ Lynn adds, finally joining us at the table.

  ‘Proven? Why? What did he do? I’ve never heard of him. How do you know he was at the fair?’ I realise my voice is sharp and brittle. I need to breathe.

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know for certain, I heard it from Alfie,’ Trevor replies. ‘Alfie heard it from someone else.’

  ‘Yes, so there’s no concrete evidence,’ Freya adds. ‘Even if he was there, it’s probably just one of those things where people put two things together even though they’re completely unrelated.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Trevor wipes his mouth with a napkin. ‘Like I said, it’s just a rumour, but worth checking out, just the same.’

  ‘So why exactly did Holloway resign as choirmaster?’ I ask, not really wanting to hear where this is going. My stomach is already clenching, my appetite diminishing.

  ‘Dad, I really don’t think Claire wants to—’

  I hold up a hand to stop Freya. ‘It’s fine. I want to hear.’

  Trevor shifts in his seat and his eyes drop to the table. ‘Well, you know the sort of thing. Allegations about inappropriate behaviour…’ His voice trails off.

  Lynn tuts. ‘It’s all speculation. Probably nothing in any of it.’ She turns to me with a kindly smile. ‘You know what people are like, love.’

  They all change the subject and start talking about life on the farm and other, safer subjects, but I can’t take any of it in. I’m too fixated on this choirmaster and whether or not there’s any truth to the rumour, my mind conjuring up all kinds of awful scenarios. After ten minutes or so of pretending to eat my scone, I make my excuses and get up to leave. If there’s any truth in this rumour, I’m going to have to speak to Gayle about it. Get them to go straight round to this Holloway person’s house.

  I hug everyone goodbye and Freya walks me out. ‘Sorry about Mum and Dad, I think they were trying to help, but…’ She throws up her hands. ‘Try not to think about that side of it.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘No it’s not. I’m going to kill Dad for upsetting you.’

  ‘No, please. It might be important information. I’m going to follow it up with the police. If it leads to us finding Beatrice sooner then it’s a good thing.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure. I think he was trying to help in a clumsy kind of way. I’ll let him live for another day.’

  I muster a pathetic smile. ‘Thank them again for the tea and scones.’

  ‘Drop by any time. You know we always love to see you. How’s Ollie holding up?’

  I don’t have the energy to talk about what’s going on with him right now, so again I mumble something about him being as well as can be expected.

  Once I’m in the car again, driving back towards Christchurch, I can’t stop thinking about Holloway. A strange buzzing has started up in my ears, and my chest is so constricted I can barely breathe. I unclick my seatbelt and open the window to let in some fresh air, but it’s no good, I need to pull over. I can barely see straight, let alone drive safely. The road isn’t that wide, so I pull up onto the kerb and click on my hazard lights.

  I inhale warm air and close my eyes, trying to let my mind go blank, but I can’t do it. I snap open my eyes and pull my phone out of my bag, letting out a silent prayer of thanks that there’s signal here. I google ‘choirmaster’ and ‘Holloway’ and wait for the res
ults. It takes a while for the blue line to cross the page and I’m about to give up and continue on my way home, when the screen suddenly fills with news stories from last May.

  His name is Gavin Holloway and he was a choirmaster and pianist who ran a youth group at his local church. The photo shows a good-looking man in his early thirties with mid-brown hair, wearing an open-neck shirt. It seems there were several allegations by young teenagers about inappropriate behaviour and, while nothing was ever proven or taken to court, he resigned from the job.

  As I read the articles, I try not to let my mind create awful scenarios, telling myself to be logical and realistic. First, there’s no proof that he did anything wrong. Second, I don’t even know for sure if he was at the fair at the same time as Beatrice. Third, even if the first two points are true, that doesn’t mean he has my daughter.

  If that’s the case, why do I feel sick? The thought of that man with Beatrice sends my heart slamming to the floor. With trembling fingers, I call Gayle and tell her about the rumour. She listens carefully and tells me she’ll follow it up immediately.

  So now all I can do is go home and wait.

  Twenty-Two

  JILL

  I wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen, even though they’re already clean. After the past few days of trauma, I’m letting myself have a few hours home alone to try to get myself straight. What with the humiliation of the newspaper article – which I still haven’t plucked up the courage to read, and don’t think I ever will – and Laurel’s disappointing attitude to everything, I think it will do me good to try to rest and gather my strength so I can be of use somewhere.

  I’m still not sleeping well at night. Just dozing a little, in between getting up to make tea and trying to read or watch television. I can’t settle to anything. I keep feeling like I should be doing something useful. Even though I have no idea what. On top of all this, I feel so alone. Claire and Oliver have each other to lean on. And, according to Oliver, they also have their police officer who’s keeping them up to date with everything. I haven’t met her, but he says she’s nice and approachable. Meanwhile, I’m left here to stew.