My Little Girl Page 5

  Oliver and I grab our phones and head out the front door into the warm summer night. We take my car as it’s blocking his in.

  ‘Want me to drive?’ he asks as we hurry down the stone steps.

  My immediate thought is to say no, but I realise that I would actually like him to drive because that way I’ll be able to do the looking. I’m desperate to search for Beatrice. Convinced I’ll succeed in finding her where the police have not.

  We set off into the dark night, merging with the sparse traffic on the main road that leads eastward, towards the fair on the outskirts of town. We drive around the backstreets that wrap around the fairground. We park up and search on foot, heading down back alleys and scouring patches of green space, peering alongside garage blocks and public buildings, looking in doorways and over garden fences. We’re stopped a few times by disgruntled residents wanting to know what the hell we think we’re doing on their property. But then we show them the photos on our phone of our sweet-faced daughter, and their anger melts away, replaced with concern. With subtle expressions of relief that it’s not their child who’s missing. With promises that they’ll keep an eye out for her.

  We keep this up for what seems like hours, until Oliver drifts and almost collides with a van on the opposite side of the road. Ollie swerves at the last minute and the van driver brakes and blasts his horn before rolling down his window, swearing loudly, his tyres screeching as he races off down the road. Ollie parks haphazardly and drops his head into his hands.

  ‘We need to go home,’ I say. ‘We’re exhausted. We need food.’

  Oliver straightens up and gazes ahead. ‘We can’t leave her out here all night.’

  ‘We won’t. Let’s just refuel. Eat something, grab a few hours’ sleep, then we can come out again.’ Every part of my body is screaming not to go home, to keep on searching, but I know that we’re too tired to do any good out here. We’ll end up causing an accident and that won’t help Beatrice. ‘Swap places with me. I’ll drive.’

  Ollie does as I say and stumbles out of the car. As we cross paths in the road, we end up hugging one another. Oliver kisses my hair and a single tear escapes from the corner of my eye. I want to say something reassuring, but I can’t find the words.

  It feels wrong to be heading home while Bea is still out here somewhere. She’s just a child, she should be with us. But we have to be practical. We need to keep ourselves strong. Does this decision make me unfeeling? Make me a bad parent? Oliver and I break apart without eye contact and get back into the car. We’ll keep scanning the roads as we head home. We won’t stop looking. We’ll find our daughter. We have to.

  Eight

  JILL

  ‘Can you turn off the engine and step out of the vehicle please?’ The officer’s voice is muffled beyond the passenger window, but I can hear the official tone, the lack of warmth.

  As if this day couldn’t get any worse, I have the horrible feeling that I’m about to be arrested for drink-driving. Which would absolutely serve me right. I’ve never done anything so stupid and selfish before. But in my defence, I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m still not. My head is all over the place. I realise the officer is still waiting so I do as he asks, unlock my door and climb out of the car, wishing I were at home in bed trying to sleep, instead of here.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammer. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘You were driving very slowly and erratically. Have you been drinking?’ The officer is young and stern.

  Why are young people so serious these days? They always look as though they have the weight of the world on their shoulders. I’m sure we had a lot more fun when we were younger. Or perhaps that’s just how I remember it – through rose-tinted spectacles.

  I make my way around to the pavement until I’m standing next to the officer. ‘I’m so sorry. I was looking for my granddaughter. She’s lost.’

  ‘Lost?’ His brow constricts. ‘Have you reported her missing?’

  ‘Yes. Her name’s Beatrice. Beatrice Nolan. She’s only seven which is why we’re so worried.’

  ‘Ah, yes, okay. I’m sorry to hear that. We’ve been briefed and we’re all on the lookout for Beatrice.’ He throws me a sympathetic look and I’m hopeful that he might let me go on my way. My hopes are instantly dashed as his expression turns serious once more. ‘I’m sorry about your granddaughter. But I have to ask again; have you been drinking?’

  My breath hitches and I momentarily think about lying, but what if he doesn’t believe me and I then have to take a breathalyser test anyway? That would look awful. ‘I did have a drink earlier to calm me down.’

  ‘Okay, in that case I’m going to ask you to take a breathalyser test.’

  Oh no, oh no. What if I’m over the limit? I cast my mind back to earlier. I think I only had one gin and tonic, didn’t I? Maybe two. I can’t quite remember. I’m not entirely sure how large the measures were. Quite large I think. But maybe not. I really can’t recall. This whole evening has just been one long nightmarish blur. My face heats up and sweat prickles under my arms. I’m so stupid. This is the last thing I need.

  Swirling blue lights from his vehicle cast strange shadows over the two of us and I feel as though I’m in some TV police drama, not my real life. I notice another officer in the driver’s seat. He gets out of the car and heads towards us.

  This second officer seems just as young, maybe in his thirties, so not that young. It’s simply that I’m older. A lot older. I suddenly feel light-headed and put a hand on the side of the car to steady myself. I hope they don’t think it’s because I’ve drunk too much. I quickly bring my hand back down to my side, try to take a deep calming breath without them seeing.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the first officer asks.

  I nod. ‘It’s been a stressful evening.’

  The second police officer gives his colleague a questioning look.

  ‘This is Beatrice Nolan’s grandmother. The girl who’s gone missing.’

  The second guy’s eyes widen. He gives me a sympathetic glance. ‘We’re still looking.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply.

  He nods and produces a small black contraption. The first officer takes it from him and turns back to me. ‘I’m just going to get you to blow into this tube, okay?’

  The next few minutes go by in a blur and then, to my horror, the officer tells me the proportion of alcohol in my breath exceeds the legal limit and he’s arresting me on suspicion of drink-driving.

  I blink, aware of my heart beating in my chest, in my ears, and in my throat. My vision blurs and I’m not sure if it’s from shock or from blowing into the breathalyser for so long. ‘Are you sure?’ I quail. ‘Could the test be wrong?’

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ he counters, ‘but we’ll take you to the station for a second test. You’ll have to get someone to collect your car for you.’

  ‘What? The station? Now?’ How can this be happening on top of everything else? ‘It’s almost midnight,’ I add uselessly.

  The officers don’t reply to that. They’re brisk and detached. Not unkind, but not sympathetic either as they direct me to lock up my car and then guide me into the back of their vehicle. As I’m clambering in, a group of boisterous young lads walk past on the opposite side of the road.

  ‘Naughty, naughty!’ one of them calls out. ‘What you been doing, grandma?’

  Their delight in my situation makes me shrink into myself. Makes me squirm in embarrassment and mortification. Is this really happening? Of course my current predicament doesn’t compare with Beatrice going missing, but what use will I be to her now? And these officers who were previously out searching for her are now going to have to deal with my situation instead. I’m taking up their precious time. Time that should have been spent locating my granddaughter and bringing her to safety.

  The journey to the station is short. At least they didn’t handcuff me. I don’t think I could have coped with that. It suddenly hits me that if I’m disqualified from driving I w
on’t be able to do anything to help with the search for Beatrice. I’ll have to go everywhere on foot or by bus, which won’t be anywhere near as effective. Please let them find her tonight. If they find her safe and well then I won’t even care if they throw me in jail.

  Before long, we’re entering the police station, the same bright sterile place that I visited earlier this evening when I had to go over my statement about Beatrice. Now here I am again, except this time I’m under arrest! Both officers bring me to a desk where the custody sergeant introduces himself. As I stand there like a naughty child, the first two officers explain to him why I’ve been arrested. It’s mortifying. I just want to curl up into a ball and die.

  They ask if I’d prefer a blood test or urine test, but the thought of either feels even more invasive, so I opt for another breath test. The custody sergeant takes my details and then the arresting officer leads me down the corridor to another brightly lit room with a large machine in the corner. Apparently, it will tell just how far over the limit I am. As the machine starts humming, I look up and note the video camera. This is all being recorded. The officer explains the procedure to me. I stand up and move forward to blow into the tube, and in a short space of time it’s all over.

  I’m asked to wait while the machine calculates my readings. It continues to buzz and click until eventually it spits out a piece of paper that looks like a receipt. I thought I was already resigned to hearing the officer declare I’m over the limit, but a small part of me must have been hoping for a miracle, because when the officer finally confirms my worst fears, my whole body sags. It’s official. I broke the law. I did something I’ve previously criticised others for doing. Something I never thought I’d do. If I’d caused an accident I would never have been able to forgive myself. I’m officially a bad person.

  The officer asks me to sign a long printout. My fingers are still shaking and the scrawl looks nothing like my signature, but I guess it will have to do.

  Now that’s over, I’m taken back to the custody sergeant at the main desk. The arresting officer confirms once again that I’m over the limit and hands the printout to the sergeant.

  But the nightmare isn’t over, because right now they’re taking me to a cell.

  ‘Is this absolutely necessary? Can’t I go home? Please won’t you let me call my son to come and pick me up?’

  ‘We’ll do that, but I need to process your paperwork first. Someone will be back for you in a while. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ the officer asks.

  I realise my throat is dry as sandpaper. ‘Yes please. Tea would be lovely. No sugar, thank you.’

  The officer nods and locks me inside. What am I doing here? I think back to my cosy kitchen. I should be there right now with Beatrice. Instead, I’m here in this godforsaken place and Bea is goodness knows where. When will this nightmare end?

  Nine

  JILL

  The cell is basic and smells of disinfectant. There’s a toilet, a wooden bench with a rubber mattress, a blanket and an unsavoury-looking pillow. I don’t want to sit on any of it, but I have no choice. I don’t think my legs will allow me to stand for much longer. I stagger over to the bench and collapse onto the blanket, the old mattress creaking beneath me. My skin is dry, my eyes scratchy and my mouth tastes sour. Even my hearing is strange, the blood whooshing in my head as though someone has pressed a seashell to my ear. I try to think calming, positive thoughts. Tell myself that this is a terrible day, but tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow the police will find my granddaughter and I’ll be back at home.

  I push out the voices that are telling me I may have to go to jail or pay a fine that I can’t afford. Maybe even both. I’ve never done anything like this before. What do I do and who should I turn to for advice? I’m sure Oliver will find someone to represent me. I think I’m going to need an experienced solicitor who knows about these matters. How will I be able to afford it? Don’t think about that now…

  This cloud of worries is nothing compared to the whispers in my head saying that Beatrice has been snatched. That someone bad has her and she’s never coming back.

  ‘I’m just tired,’ I say out loud. ‘That’s all. Tired and stressed. Come on, Jill, pull yourself together.’ I just need to get through tonight. Everything will be sorted out tomorrow. Please let it be sorted out. Although, what in the world will Oliver and Claire think when they hear about my situation? This will only confirm Claire’s opinion that I’m not to be trusted. Will she even let me see Bea again?

  After what seems like forever, a female officer brings me a cup of tea. She’s cheerful, thank goodness. I thank her but after she leaves I kick myself for not asking about that phone call. I should probably try to get some sleep, but I just can’t bring myself to lay my head on that used pillow.

  After an even longer wait the first officer visits me and I take another test on the device. It’s negative. Now that I’m finally sober, to my shame and horror, I’m formally charged with drink-driving. I could sob. At least now that’s out of the way, he tells me I can soon be released from custody.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I ask, my voice hoarse.

  He checks his watch. ‘Half past one.’

  I’m shocked. I thought it was only around midnight. ‘Can I call my son to pick me up now?’

  ‘Yes, sure. I’ll be back soon.’ Frustratingly, he leaves and I’m left to stew again. This time, I’m so tired I lie down with my head on the thin pillow and feel myself drifting off.

  ‘Jill.’

  A voice cuts into my slumber and I open my eyes, squinting against the unholy brightness.

  ‘It’s Sergeant Wilkes, time to go.’

  ‘Who?’ My mouth is dry and my bones are as stiff as iron bars.

  ‘Come on. Up you get, Jill.’

  It all comes rushing back. The fair, Beatrice, the drink-driving. This man is the arresting officer.

  ‘Oh dear.’ I heave myself up off the narrow bench and wobble to my feet, my hair plastered to my cheek, my dress twisted and wrinkled. I must look an absolute fright.

  I follow him out of the awful cell, back to the front desk where I’m given some pieces of paper which, he informs me, are the charge sheet. I’m told that I’m on police bail to appear at the magistrates’ court in a couple of weeks’ time. Apparently, I’m allowed to drive until then but in court I’ll be disqualified. He can’t tell me how long the ban will last.

  Finally, he returns my handbag which contains my mobile phone. Much as it pains me to add more trauma to my family, I sit in reception and call Oliver. I probably should have taken a taxi, but I really don’t feel up to talking to another stranger. I need to see a friendly face. To hug my son.

  But as soon as he answers the phone, I can tell it was a mistake to call.

  ‘Mum? Is that you?’ Oliver’s voice is thick with sleep.

  ‘Ollie, I’m so sorry to wake you.’

  ‘Did you hear something about Bea?’ His voice has snapped into wakefulness and I realise he thinks I’m calling with news. I berate myself for such thoughtlessness.

  ‘No, nothing yet, sorry.’

  ‘Oh.’ His tone deflates. He’s speaking to Claire now: ‘No, it’s just Mum. No, there’s no news. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have called. I woke you both. Sorry.’

  ‘Mum, It’s two fifteen in the morning. What’s the matter?’

  I try to keep my voice even. ‘I’ve done something silly.’ He doesn’t reply, so I keep going. I tell him of the night’s events and how I got arrested. ‘I’m still at the police station.’

  ‘Drink-driving?’ Oliver sounds incredulous. ‘Mum, I can’t believe this.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m so sorry. I hate to ask, but would you be able to pick me up and drop me home?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I know it’s late.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just… I can’t leave Claire at the moment. We need to be together while this is going on. We’ve been out searching t
he streets, too. Only just managed to fall asleep. I’m… can you get a taxi home? You know that any other time I would come and get you like a shot, but—’

  ‘Of course. I know you would.’ I gulp down the lump in my throat.

  ‘Look, I’ll come over tomorrow, but right now… it’s just…’

  ‘Of course. Of course I’ll get a cab. Look, don’t give it a second thought. I’m so sorry for calling you, Olls.’

  ‘You sure you’ll be okay, Mum?’

  ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’ I inject firmness and capability into my voice so he won’t feel any worse than he already does.

  ‘Okay. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Night, darling.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  I end the call and take a deep breath, trying hard not to feel upset. I absolutely understand that it was terrible of me to wake him and Claire. To expect them to pick me up when they’re so distraught about Bea. To add to their distress. I think tonight must be the night of bad decisions, because I’m messing up left, right and centre.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I call Laurel. She’s always up late so I know she won’t mind me ringing. I should have called her in the first place.

  ‘Jill, is everything okay? I heard about Beatrice. I tried calling you at home and on your mobile but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘How do you know what happened?’

  ‘It’s a small town. Everyone knows everything. How are you doing? How’s Ollie… and Claire?’ Her voice deadens on Claire’s name. We try to avoid talking about her, Oliver’s second wife.

  ‘They’re beside themselves. We all are. But listen, I need your help. Did I wake you?’

  ‘I’m just reading in bed.’

  I quickly explain what happened. That I need a lift home from the police station.

  Laurel doesn’t baulk at what I’ve done. Instead, she’s furious. ‘They breathalysed you after you told them about Beatrice!? That’s so harsh. And how can you have been over the limit when you only had one drink? You should ask for a re-test.’