A Daughter's Secret (34 page)

‘What, so she’s not who she says she is?’

‘Don’t know for sure, but that’s the theory I’m working on.’

‘So Gemma was telling the truth.’

‘Maybe.’ I sit there in silence, my heart aching in my chest. No words come.

‘You still there . . .?’

‘I should go. Well done.’

‘Thanks,’ he says, his voice matching mine for flatness. ‘I don’t want to hurt you’ – that’s what I want to tell him, but that particular handful of words could mean so many different things.

‘I mean it,’ I say, my voice catching in my throat. ‘Well done. I know you can do this.’

‘I appreciate the vote of confidence.’ It’s his turn to pause. ‘Mia . . .’

‘I really have to go. Just need to get my head round it all. Let’s talk properly tomorrow.’

I hang up, stare at the phone, almost willing her to call me. Nothing.

I shouldn’t do this. I can’t not. Annie answers on the first ring.

‘Is she with you?’ she asks, breathless.

‘Sorry?’

‘Gemma,’ she snaps. ‘Is she with you?’

‘No. It’s nine o’clock at night. Why would you think . . . is Gemma missing?’

That pause, that click – that sharp intake of breath like she’s sucking in oxygen, not a toxin.

‘She’s not here . . .’ she says.

I need your help
. Why did I do that – just erase her with a swift, panicky tap of my finger?

‘Could she be with a friend?’

‘Whatever she might’ve made out to you, she doesn’t really
do
friends,’ says Annie, barbed. ‘Not friends she keeps hold of any length of time. Certainly hasn’t made any in the new school. I’ve tried anyone I could think of.
Nada.
’

‘In that case I think you need to call the police. They could trace her phone.’

‘Her phone’s switched off.’

‘Is it? She texted me a couple of hours ago saying she needed my help.’ And I deleted it – I don’t add the postscript. ‘That’s what I was calling to tell you. Annie, with the text too – don’t you think it’s time to call the police?’

Annie doesn’t reply; all I can hear is her breathing, the smoke curling its way down into her tired lungs. I want to scream at her, shake her so hard she wakes up from her trance. ‘It’s
your
help she needs, Annie,’ I say, forcing myself to keep going. I struggle for the next words, weighed down by the burden of what Patrick’s just told me. Does she know that Gemma’s story could be true? Even if she does, I can’t betray the fact that the investigation is on to them. ‘Do you think she’s with her dad? Could he have taken her?’

That’s when she starts to cry. They’re odd things, her sobs – sharp and staccato, like she’s fighting them tooth and nail. Or maybe they’re entirely under her control, a convenient distraction from the question.

‘Can you just come over here? Her room’s like the
Mary Celeste
, TV blaring, iPad on the bed . . . you might see something I’ve missed. I don’t want to push the panic button if we don’t have to.’

The irony: Gemma was pushing the panic button on day one, those scars as shocking as any indecent exposure. My eyes flick involuntarily to the rear-view mirror, slide swiftly across it. I check the doors are locked for about the hundredth time. Her iPad’s like her fifth limb: if she was going voluntarily, why wouldn’t she take it?

‘It would be completely inappropriate, you know that . . . let me send the police to help you.’

Patrick. I think of him lying there, all bandaged up and hurting. He doesn’t need to be trying to negotiate this from his hospital bed. That was the reason for not calling him I sold myself anyway.

‘No!’ she says, voice shaking. ‘Listen to me, it’s not just Gemma. I’ve got the boys to think of. You don’t know . . .’ She picks out her words, enunciates each syllable like she’s teaching me a foreign language I’m too dense to pick up. ‘You don’t know what they’re capable of.’

MIA
– those flowers, so elegantly woven together, pink and purple and white. I do know. If Gemma’s worth so much to Christopher, if he’s willing to risk so much to keep seeing her, then she’s worth almost as much to them.
I’m his Achilles heel, Mia.

‘I get how frightened you are . . .’ I cringe as the words reach my ears. My session voice has crept in, like I’m trying to squash the situation into something I can control, a mosquito lying dead under the flat of my palm. If I lose Annie, if I fatally alienate her, I’ll lose Gemma too. I turn the key in the ignition. ‘I’m coming now.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

I pull up outside the big white house, kill the engine. The lights are blazing at the tall windows, a gleaming 4 x 4 parked in the drive. No wonder Patrick’s so infuriated that their life of luxury is proving so hard to take away.

I forced myself to text Mum before I drove here, told her not to worry about me, that I needed some time to myself. I nearly switch off my phone – every time her number flashes up I start to feel the jagged waves of aftershock – but I know that I mustn’t leave myself that vulnerable. I look back up at the imposing house, fear starting to thrum through me. I can’t give way to it, not now I’ve come this far.

Annie flings open the door before I get a chance to ring, her face pale and pinched. She’s always been so well armoured, but not today. She’s in velour sweatpants, her blonde hair twisted up tight on the top of her head, dark roots insistent.

‘Thanks for doing this,’ she says, standing aside to let me into the wide hallway. ‘Do you want anything? Water?’

‘That’d be great.’

The kitchen is vast, a big tiled island in the centre, top-of-the range appliances either side. My eyes lock on a wall of photographs as Annie busies herself with a complicated chrome dispenser, built into the fridge. School pictures: Gemma and her brothers, her standing behind them, slightly apart. A wedding: Gemma as a bridesmaid, the frilly dress looking like a bad choice of fancy dress, her smile more a judicious baring of teeth. And then, a holiday shot, the whole family together. Christopher, tanned and relaxed, has an arm flung around Gemma’s shoulders, her beaming smile a total contrast to the poor imitation in the other shots. It’s Annie’s smile that looks forced now, her gaze pulling towards the two little boys in the front of the frame. It’s badly composed, blurry even, and yet someone’s decided it’s wall-worthy. There are a couple of Christopher and Annie at formal events. She’s ball-gowned, professionally made up, her smile never wavering. Their eyes are trained straight ahead: they’re so disconnected from one another they could’ve been Photoshopped.

There’s silence now, the water no longer ostentatiously jetting into my glass. I turn round. Annie’s watching me, her eyes narrowed.

‘I’ve got some white open.’

‘Water’s great, thanks,’ I say too quickly.

‘Let’s go upstairs, shall we?’

I almost say no, almost turn on my heels, refuse to step further in, but something compels me onwards.
I need your help
. I heard you this time, Gemma.

I’d have expected Annie to have tidied up, to have tried to assert some control over her wayward daughter, but Gemma’s bitten-into sandwich is still lying there, the TV playing some chaotic reality show I don’t even recognize. Annie hits mute, both of us looking at the iPad lying discarded in the middle of her unmade double bed. The bedding is black, even the sheets, in total contrast to the sprigs of pink roses that decorate the wallpaper: I bet she’s begged to have the room rescued from her tweenie taste. There’s a shelf above her desk that groans with objects, the place where you can see her desperately trying to assert her real-time personality. There’s a plaster of Paris monster mask, painstakingly painted in greens and blacks, fur stuck to it, and a couple of other eccentric home-made props – she’s proud of what she does in that workshop. There’s a vinyl copy of Radiohead’s
The Bends
propped up on a stand like it’s a precious artefact, and a pristine hardback of
Mr Nice
along with a couple of dogeared paperbacks. The autobiography of a middle-aged, male drug dealer? It’s not exactly required reading for thirteen-year-old girls. ‘Me too,’ screams the shelf. ‘I’m still your little rock, even when another part of me is carving out monsters.’

‘Have you tried getting into it?’ I ask Annie.

‘Yeah, I don’t have the password.’

I sit down gingerly on the bed, suddenly feeling like an intruder. I think of Judith for a second, cringe inwardly. If I had any chance of saving my career, it’s being sucked straight down the plughole now.

‘I know this is a bit Judy Blume, but do you think she keeps a diary?’

Annie looks at me like I’m an Amish, and I’ve just trotted over here on a pony. You can see exactly where Gemma honed her ability to wither.

‘I told you, she’s dyslexic. It’s all texts and keyboards.’

Her eyes keep jumping around the room, as if Gemma might suddenly materialize in a puff of smoke. I need to start hammering home the fact that it’s not going to happen, that now is the time to get over her antipathy to the police and start accepting that they’re the lesser evil.

‘Annie, do you think Christopher’s taken her?’

Patrick told me that, when they carried out the raid, she completely denied any knowledge of Christopher ever having been there, dismissed it as nothing more than police harassment, but if Gemma was telling the truth, she must surely have known all along?

‘“Taken her . . .”’ she says, the words dripping with sarcasm. ‘Not sure that’s strictly necessary. I want to hear your professional opinion. Do you think my daughter worships her dad so much that she’d rather live her life on the run than suffer living here with us?’

The TV momentarily hooks my gaze. Two girls in vest tops are having a pantomime row, their French-manicured fingers jabbing viciously at one another. It’s surreal sitting here, the tension so palpable I can taste it in the back of my throat.

‘She’s dangerously loyal, no question. Part of the reason I understand it—’ I look to her, apology in my eyes. ‘Part of the reason I went too far is because I was like that myself when I was her age.’ I can’t go there, however hard it pulls on me right now. ‘But she does love you, Annie. She’s got the luxury of taking you for granted. You’re the safe one.’

‘You just saying that?’

I pause, check. The last thing this situation needs is more lies.

‘No, she does. But it gets buried. It gets twisted.’ My eyes have found another one of her props, a metallic skull fashioned out of wire and coat hangers. ‘We’ve been working on it. Taking Christopher off his big, fat pedestal and valuing all of you.’ I look at her, a shred of hope visible in her expression. She’s a tough cookie – I’m sure she’s not one for soppy cuddles and declarations – but I’m certain her love for Gemma runs deep. ‘Her anger lands in the wrong places.’

She doesn’t speak for what seems like ages, her gaze still roving the room, tracking all the scattered pieces of Gemma. I look around the room too, fear needling my flesh. Why doesn’t she feel the urgency? My eyes land on that flabby white-bread sandwich, the edges curling unappetizingly, a pinkish tongue of ham lolling out. Should I say this?

‘Annie, if she wanted to go with him, why would she leave her room like this? And the iPad – it’s surgically attached to her.’ We look at each other, the seconds stretching out till they feel like days. I keep inching forward, like a rookie soldier in no man’s land. ‘That teacher – it turns out she was a Stephen plant after all.’

I watch her face, catching the look that lands before the one she pulls off the peg and tries on for size. She did know. A wave of disgust torrents through me: how could she do that to Gemma? Not just to Gemma, to any other Gemma who is some mother’s precious thing. I mustn’t say it – I’ve come too far to lose her now. Her eyes flick up to me briefly, then she reaches for the iPad.

‘Just try,’ she says. ‘You might know her better than you think.’

I take it from her, grateful for anything that can provide a momentary distraction. I start to fiddle with the screen, wrestling with my feelings. I try not to judge my patients, whatever they bring to me: I need to do the same thing here – walk a mile in her nude Jimmy Choos. I bet she started out turning a blind eye – most likely the only thing she could do to protect her family from imminent destruction – then found there was so much to ignore that it became a permanent disability. And who am I – the Mia that’s trapped between the walls of Christopher Vine’s palatial home – to judge? I know more than anyone that, once you’ve crossed the line, it can swiftly become impossible to cross back. So why do I say it?

‘You knew, didn’t you?’

The words fall from my mouth against my will. Her blue eyes are blazing.

‘No, not always. Not at the beginning. It all looks so sodding easy from where you’re sitting, doesn’t it?’

I make my voice soft. ‘Not at all.’

‘I started to
suspect
, I didn’t know. Piano lessons were Chris’s idea, before he left, not that I told the police that. Get her a proper hobby, he said, like they’re something you buy.’ She looks at the ranged objects on the shelf, looks back to me. ‘If I hadn’t let her go, let him see her, this would’ve happened weeks ago. I hoped her sessions with you would stop her wanting to go. I tell you what I did know – he was always gonna come back for her.’

Her eyes brim with tears.

‘That’s hard,’ I say, the words so tiny and inadequate. I’ve been randomly tapping in four-number codes as we’re talking, more as a distraction than with any expectation of success. The date and day of my birthday – all I was doing was giving my monkey mind something to play with, but suddenly the screen opens up. Relief, swiftly followed by fear so acute it makes me nauseous. I never told Gemma my birthday. How much do these people know about me?

‘What did you do?’

‘It was my birthday. I never told her my birthday.’

‘Typical Gem. She’ll have pulled it from somewhere.’

My skin feels clammy, my hands are shaking: I watch them from above, my pale fingers tightly gripping on to the gleaming rectangle. I need to get us through this, find out enough to track her down and get out. I don’t even ask Annie if she wants me to be the one to look, I just start jabbing at the screen.