My Little Girl Page 8

  Freya closes the fridge and comes around the table to take my hand. ‘Hey, don’t think like that. We’ll find her. There are so many people out searching. We won’t rest until she’s home safe.’

  ‘But she’s obviously not just lost, right? Or they’d have found her by now. And she hasn’t run away.’ My voice cracks. ‘So that really only leaves one possibility.’ I realise I’m crying now, hot tears that sting my eyes.

  ‘Oh, hon…’ Freya enfolds me in her arms. ‘Not necessarily. She could have wandered off, got lost and hurt herself. She might be lying somewhere with a twisted ankle, in which case Jill’s search party is a great idea as it’s the best chance of finding her.’

  As I sob into my friend’s shoulder, I really want to believe she’s right. Because the alternative just doesn’t bear thinking about. There’s an ache in my gut, in my heart. Nothing else matters apart from getting Beatrice back. Nothing.

  Thirteen

  JILL

  The journalist pins me with his gaze while the photographer fiddles with his camera.

  I squirm under Giles’s scrutiny, suddenly not at all sure that it’s wise to be talking to a journalist, even a sympathetic one. ‘Um, I don’t really have time to talk right now. But if you want to help, you’re welcome to join in the search and maybe we could talk at a later date when I’ve had a chance to think about it. Right now, I have to get back to the search.’ I take a step backwards, eager to join my friends once more.

  ‘Don’t you think my time would be better spent getting the word out about your missing granddaughter straight away? We have a large local readership both online and in print. Think of all those people who’ll see the photo of your granddaughter and may know something that would lead to her being found.’

  The journalist has a point. But I’m still wary of talking to him. Fearful of doing anything that might make things worse.

  He’s not giving up. ‘All I’d need are a few more quick photos of you, a recent image of Beatrice and a short account of the events leading up to her going missing. A piece like this in the paper could jog someone’s memory.’

  I swallow and tuck my hair behind my ears. I suppose that as he already knows about Beatrice, it would be best that I gave a true account, rather than allowing him to use guesswork to write his article. After a moment’s silence, I give him my answer. ‘Okay, so long as we’re quick. I really want to get back to the search.’

  I spend the next fifteen minutes going over the events leading up to Bea’s disappearance. Giles Renton is gentler than DI Khatri. He says he has a daughter the same age as Bea and doesn’t know what he’d do if anything happened to her. I feel reassured by his sympathetic attitude. Finally, the photographer has me standing by the fairground entrance as he snaps several pictures. All the while, I feel alternately hopeful that this could lead to Beatrice being found, and anxious that I’ve made a mistake by agreeing to the interview. But my discomfort at being photographed is overlaid by the thought that I’m doing this for my granddaughter.

  Finally, Giles Renton shakes my hand and wishes me well. ‘Hope she’s found safe and well very soon.’

  I nod my thanks before they leave just as Trina bustles over in my direction.

  ‘There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  ‘Sorry, I was just—’

  Trina doesn’t give me a chance to explain. ‘So, the search-party groups have already headed off. I gave them each a specific area to cover, and they all have their whistles along with my mobile number in case anyone finds Beatrice, or anything else that might relate to her. I’m working with the local neighbourhood sergeant who’s allocated some special officers to go with each group, make sure we don’t trample over any potential new crime scenes.’

  ‘That’s great, Trina. Thank you.’ She’s very businesslike, but at least she’s getting things done. I’m distracted by a sudden breeze that ruffles Trina’s short locks, giving her the appearance of a hedgehog. Giving myself an internal shake, I try to concentrate on what she’s saying.

  ‘I’ve told everyone to meet back here at one p.m. to break for lunch. And then I’ll give them new routes for the afternoon. The sergeant seems quite pleased with my efforts so far.’

  I get the feeling Trina could have had a shining career in the armed forces. Before she retired she was an office manager, so I guess she’s used to taking charge.

  ‘Thank you,’ I offer again.

  ‘It’s not a problem, Jill. I’m pleased to help.’

  ‘Shall we walk back?’ I stick a hand out towards our original meeting spot.

  Trina doesn’t move, and instead continues talking as if she hasn’t heard my question. ‘Laurel, Leslie and myself have each chipped in a fiver.’ She hands me three five-pound notes which I take, despite being bewildered by the offer. She continues, ‘Are you able to nip to the supermarket to pick up some sandwiches and water?’

  I’m taken aback. ‘Oh, right. Shouldn’t I go with one of the groups?’ I’m a little put out that she’s sending me off on a food run as I’d set my heart on being out there searching for Bea. I realise that I really want to be the one to find her. After all, that’s why I organised today in the first place. I need to redeem myself.

  ‘Well, it’s a little late now.’ Trina sucks air in through her teeth. ‘The groups are all underway. And I need to stay here to plot this afternoon’s routes. The thing is, Jill, lunch is super-important for everyone to keep their strength up. So you’d be really helping out.’

  She’s veering towards the patronising now, but I can’t allow her tone to rile me. I couldn’t have arranged such a good job this morning without her. And it shouldn’t take long to pick up a few sandwiches.

  I drop my shoulders. ‘Okay, yes, sure, I’ll go.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ She graces me with a perfunctory smile and strides back towards her makeshift headquarters like she’s the queen of the world.

  I watch her purposeful march across the grass and try to inject some of that briskness into my own body as I head for the pedestrian crossing which will take me into town. The sooner I buy lunch, the sooner I can get back to the search. As I cross the road and wind my way between the queuing cars in the already-full supermarket car park, I realise I never asked what sandwiches everyone wanted. Never mind, I’ll buy a selection and let them choose. I’m not fussy so I’ll just have whatever’s left. I know Laurel likes egg mayo, so I’ll get her one of those.

  It’s not quite midday, but the supermarket is already jammed. Probably due to the fact it’s a baking hot Sunday in August so everyone’s panic shopping for picnics and barbecues. Despite the crowds, it’s blissfully cool in here and it feels like heaven to glide past the frigid air surrounding the chiller cabinets.

  Thankfully, there are still a few packs of sandwiches left on the shelves, so I make my selections – an egg mayo for Laurel, a cheese ploughman’s, a chicken salad and a BLT – adding four bottles of water and four packets of crisps to complete the meal deal that’s on offer – sandwiches, crisps and a drink all for five pounds. Trina must have known about it. I also treat myself to a packet of fruit pastilles, my mouth watering at the thought of them. Guilt blindsides me as I remember that Beatrice loves fruit pastilles too. She always asks for them when she visits and of course I always indulge her. Her favourite flavours are the same as mine – lemon and lime.

  I pay on my credit card and keep the cash that’s already folded into my purse. My heart is pounding as I walk out of the automatic doors into the blinding heat of the morning. It’s only as I reach the pedestrian crossing once more that I register the fact that the cashier only charged me five pounds for the four meal deals instead of twenty. I check the receipt just to make certain, and sure enough it shows five pounds. I realise that I must have put the other three lunches and the fruit pastilles straight into my bag before paying, instead of into the basket.

  I should return to the checkout and admit what I’ve done. That would certainly be the ethical
thing to do. It’s what I would advise anyone else to do in my position. But my heartbeat is still thrashing in my ears, my skin prickling with sweat, my breathing shallow. I don’t think I can do it. What if they don’t believe it was an honest mistake? What if they call the police?

  The green man flashes at the crossing and the beeps start up, as though urging me to get a move on and cross the road. They make the decision for me. I take a steadying breath and walk back towards the fairground. I don’t have time to waste going back to the supermarket. My granddaughter needs me, and she’s far more important than a silly oversight like this. And I can’t deny that fifteen extra pounds in my purse is a weight off my mind.

  Fourteen

  CLAIRE

  Freya stays for a quick cup of tea while I cry some more on her shoulder, and then she offers to drive me to the playing fields to join in the search.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think I’m up to talking to a bunch of strangers. I mean I’m grateful to them for being there…’

  ‘Totally understand. It’s probably for the best anyway.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Laurel’s there.’

  I freeze. ‘Laurel? As in Oliver’s ex?’

  ‘Yep. She’s in full confrontation mode. I had to break up an argument between her and this posh couple who were volunteering.’

  ‘What the hell’s she doing there?’

  ‘I think she came with Jill.’

  I take a breath, trying not to let this new piece of information bother me. I always knew that Jill had a soft spot for Oliver’s ex-wife. That she probably wishes they never broke up. Laurel’s an artist, another ‘free spirit’ like herself. I’m sure she thinks Laurel’s better suited to her son than me. But right now I’ve got more important things to worry about. I shouldn’t let Laurel’s involvement in the search add to my stress.

  ‘You should’ve seen her, Claire.’ Freya rolls her eyes, trying to lighten the mood for my benefit. ‘Swishing around in her hippy-dippy dress like she was queen bee, and then this couple in her search group asked her to stop vaping because they didn’t like the smell.’

  ‘Bet she loved that.’

  Freya grins. ‘She basically told them to get stuffed. I had to intervene. Told them all it wasn’t the time or place.’

  ‘Good for you. Thanks, Frey. So what happened after that?’

  ‘Cheeky cow blew smoke in my face.’

  I shake my head. Normally, if something like this happened, Freya and I would chat about it for ages over a glass of wine. But not today. I already feel guilty enough for the twenty-minute conversation we’ve just had. I can’t sit around any longer.

  As though she’s read my mind, Freya gets to her feet. ‘I’ll go.’ She wraps her arms around me, planting a kiss on my cheek. ‘Stay positive, my lovely. We’ll find her.’

  ‘Thanks. And thanks for coming over.’

  I’m grateful to Freya for letting me offload, especially as she’s had troubles of her own. She split up with Joe, her boyfriend of two years, this May and she’s been glum ever since. Last night’s meal was supposed to be an evening out to cheer her up. I’ll make it up to her once Beatrice is home.

  After Freya leaves, the house feels even more forlorn, the air heavy and still as though it’s holding its breath. I stay seated in the kitchen feeling inert and hopeless until my phone jolts me out of it. It’s Jill. My first thought is to ignore her call. But then what if she’s calling with news?

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Claire. I just wanted to call to see how you’re doing. Oliver said you’re a bit upset about the search party.’

  Good one, Ollie.

  ‘About me not telling you both about it.’

  ‘It’s fine, Jill. I’m completely fine with it.’ I lie because I don’t have the energy to tell her how I really feel. ‘Thanks for organising it.’

  ‘Really? Oh, thank goodness. It’s just, after yesterday, and then with what happened last night, I wasn’t sure what to do for the best. Whether to call you or not. I didn’t want you to feel obliged to join in the search. Not if you were exhausted, or just couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Honestly, don’t worry. So how’s it going? The search, I mean.’

  ‘Well, we’ve had a terrific turnout. A couple of hundred people showed up first thing, and since then more and more people have come along as the day’s gone on and the word’s spread.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ I worry I’m sounding insincere. ‘Is there any news about Bea? Did anyone find anything?’

  ‘Not yet, but it’s early days, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? She’s been missing overnight. The longer she’s missing, the less chance there is of finding her.’ I need to end this call before I say something I regret. Before I lose my shit and start screaming down the phone at her about how she lost my daughter. About how she might be the person responsible for destroying my family.

  ‘Let’s think positive.’ Jill’s voice wavers in my ear, telling me she’s not thinking positive at all. But I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for Jill right now. And I don’t want her telling me to think positive – not when she’s the one who’s caused all this. I suppose at least she’s out there doing something, which is more than I can say about myself right now.

  ‘How’s Laurel?’ I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  There’s a beat of silence. ‘She’s… uh… well, you know she and I still keep in touch. She wanted to help.’

  ‘Of course she did.’ I know I sound like a jealous witch, but I can’t help myself. I feel as though my whole personality is unravelling. As though I can no longer control either my words or my emotions. Everything is bubbling up to the surface, boiling over. ‘You always preferred Laurel anyway. I don’t blame you. She’s much easier to get along with than me.’

  ‘Claire!’

  Tears are spilling down my face now and it’s nothing to do with Jill or Laurel or the search party, and everything to do with my missing baby. My daughter. What if I never see her again?

  I suck in a breath and try to speak normally. ‘Okay, Jill, well thanks for calling.’

  ‘Claire, please, don’t hang up yet. Are you all right?’

  Of course I’m not fucking all right. ‘Yep, yes, I’m fine. Sorry about that. Emotions are getting the better of me.’

  ‘Of course, that’s entirely understandable. I feel the same way. I’ll send Ollie back home to be with you.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’m okay. Please don’t worry.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Jill spends another minute making sure I’m fine before I can finally end the call.

  I’m not sure how much longer I can do this. This can’t be my new reality. This can’t be the way things are going to be. I need Beatrice back home. Her face flashes into my mind, and I hear her funny laugh and her constant bright stream of chatter. She’s such a vibrant child. So alive. So much at the heart of our lives that there’s no way we can live without her in it.

  It’s already lunchtime and I still haven’t ventured out of the house. I realise that Jill being out there searching with half the town is the reason I don’t want to join her search party. Is it sour grapes that’s keeping me away? Maybe. On some deeper level I feel like the grief is mine alone. Like I’m the only one who has a right to it. Which is utter nonsense, I know. I’m behaving like a lunatic. I need to stop this right now.

  I get up, fling open the back door and step out into the garden. I stand on the patio just out of the sun’s reach. It’s warm even in the shade. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to gather strength, to steady my mind and my emotions. Lashing out isn’t going to do me or Beatrice any good. I need to calm down and be more single-minded about what I need to do. I can’t let myself get distracted by other people.

  Thankfully, Phil from next door has stopped hammering and drilling for now. All I hear is the wind sighing through the trees and the faint hum of traffic from the main road. I breathe in and out, loose
ning my body, trying to ease the tension in my limbs, my back, my shoulders, my jaw.

  As I stand there trying to centre myself, an idea comes to me. One that fires me up and gives me a tiny spark of hope.

  Fifteen

  CLAIRE

  I leave the patio and head straight for my office at the front of the house. This room should really have been a dining or living room, and I could have used the third bedroom upstairs as my office. But, as an independent financial advisor, I often have clients visit the house, so having my office downstairs is more practical. Stops people traipsing up the stairs.

  The room is square and functional with white blinds at the window and a grey desk, on which sits my laptop, a pile of pending paperwork and assorted stationery. Two straight-backed chairs face the desk, and my own chair is a comfortable red-leather number that Oliver bought me two Christmases ago. My professional certificates have been framed and hung on the wall beside my desk – another gift from my husband. He’s always so thoughtful. Buying good gifts is a talent of his. The wall opposite is lined with grey cabinets where all my cases are meticulously filed.

  Thought of work sets off feelings of guilt and panic. I have clients depending on me for mortgage applications, insurance policies and the rest. I’ll have to call and apologise. I’ll point them in the direction of other professional contacts who could take over for me while I’m going through this trauma. But I can’t face doing any of that right now.