First One Missing (9 page)

‘The old ones were falling apart,’ she lied, furious with herself for feeling she had to.

The two women sat down at the blond-wood table – two cups of tea in pewter-coloured mugs between them.

‘How are the girls?’

Emma shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. They were upset this morning when they heard the news. But on the whole they don’t talk about it much. You know what kids are like.’

Too late she remembered Leanne didn’t know what kids were like. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

Leanne gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Don’t be silly.’

Both awkward, they blew on their still-steaming tea.

Finally, Leanne took a deep breath. ‘You know why I’m here, Emma.’

Ah, here it was. The conversation Emma had been dreading since the newsreader on the radio said Tilly’s name that morning and everything in the world stopped.

She nodded.

‘I know it’s awful for you to have all this dredged up again,’ Leanne went on, and Emma almost snorted out loud at the phrase ‘dredged up’, as if Tilly’s death was something she had successfully buried, something that needed to be dragged out from wherever it had been hidden, rather than something that was a constant presence in her brain.

‘But, you know, we very much believe whoever killed Poppy Glover was also responsible for killing Tilly, so I need to ask you some questions to find out if there is any link between yourselves and the Glovers, or even just the two girls.’

‘There wasn’t a link last time, with Leila Botsford. Or with Megan Purvis.’

‘No. Or if there is one we haven’t found it yet.’

Leanne glanced towards the kitchen door.

‘Is Guy here, Emma? I think it would be easier to talk to you both together.’

Emma was almost surprised to remember that he was indeed there – shut away inside his study. Since that moment this morning where he’d surprised her at his desk, they’d kept out of each other’s way. She felt bad about how she’d pushed past him, knowing she was in the wrong, and had called up the stairs a couple of hours later to ask if he wanted any lunch. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he’d called back. ‘I’ll get my own later.’

Emma didn’t like to think of how many meals they’d consumed separately under the same roof since Tilly died – she eating with the girls, or else skipping meals altogether, Guy standing at the kitchen counter spooning cold baked beans into his mouth straight from the tin. They’d always made such a big thing of sitting down as a family. Eating good food, like laughing and having sex, was one of the things she’d found most impossible after it happened. For a while she’d lost all sense of taste, so a fine steak in her mouth was the same as a plain baked potato or a lump of congealed macaroni cheese. Then, when taste returned, her own head prevented her from taking pleasure in what was on her plate. Sometimes she’d forget and catch herself mid-mouthful, savouring the flavours and textures of whatever she was eating, and a wave of self-disgust would sweep over her, turning the food to cardboard in her mouth.

When Guy appeared, he looked bewildered, as if he’d just woken up. As he approached the table, Emma put her hand out on impulse and gave his arm a squeeze. He paused, looking down at her, startled, and she dropped her arm quickly.

‘Good to see you again, Guy,’ said Leanne. ‘Wish it didn’t always have to be in such crappy circumstances.’

Guy nodded. ‘Poor you. You always catch us at our worst.’

As if the rest of the time they were having a sing-song around the piano and playing amusing family games.

‘So, how are things?’ Guy wanted to know. ‘With your husband? Pete, wasn’t it?’

Emma’s head shot up and she stared at her husband in astonishment. Since when did he ask personal questions? And surely he must remember how Leanne had appeared suddenly hollow and over-thin the last time they’d seen her, her eyes sunken into violet shadows. It was soon clear that the marriage, which had been under such strain when they’d first met her, had finally unravelled.

‘Oh, you know,’ said Leanne, her cheeks flushed pink. ‘Suffice to say he’s my ex-husband now. Still lives with that … woman he left me for. Where’s karma when you need it, hey?’

Leanne had hesitated before the word ‘woman’ and Emma knew she’d wanted to say something quite different.

‘Anyway,’ Leanne continued, ‘I’m over it now.’

By the way Leanne smiled then, Emma could tell she was seeing someone else and for a split second, a flare of jealousy shot through her at this reminder that for other people, life carried on. Other people were meeting, falling in love, fucking, arguing, making up, while she and Guy alone were like this, suspended in aspic.

‘I know you’ve both heard the terrible news about Poppy Glover.’

Leanne’s eyes, in some lights blue, in others green, flicked from Emma to Guy and then back again. One thing you could always say for Leanne – she told it to you straight. Since Tilly died, Emma had spoken to a lot of police officers. So many she didn’t ever want to speak to another one in her life. So she knew they didn’t always look you in the eye when they gave you bad news.

‘I can’t reveal too much about the circumstances of Poppy’s death at this point. I know you of all people understand that. But I need to find out if there are any overlaps at all between yourselves and the Glovers. Did the girls go to the same nursery? Might you have mutual friends?’

Though they pored over the sketchy biographical details of the Glover family Leanne was able to provide, they could find no obvious common ground.

The doorbell went and Guy and Emma exchanged a brief querying look. The shape through the opaque glass as Emma moved down the hallway gave away few clues.

The woman standing on the doorstep was slim and blonde and wearing a pale-blue well-cut dress that revealed just a hint of lightly tanned cleavage. The dress ended at the knee and her toned bare legs were set off by a pair of high-heeled nude court shoes. She had one of those faces that made you look twice, because at first glance you’d have placed her in her early thirties, but then something – a straining of the skin around the eyes, a hardness around the mouth – made you reconsider. Mid-forties, Emma decided now. And familiar somehow.

‘Mrs Reid? I don’t know if you remember me?’

There was a pause then, before she carried on.

‘I can see you don’t. I’m Sally Freeland. We’ve met before. I’m a features writer with the
Daily
…’

Now she remembered her. Pushy. Steely. One of those blackmailing journalists who told you that publicizing your story might help prevent other parents having to go through the same nightmare.
Don’t you think it’s what Tilly might have wanted?

‘I’m not interested in talking to—’

‘How does it feel, Mrs Reid, to know it’s happened again? What message would you like to send to the Glovers?’

The woman was waving one of those small, rectangular digital recording devices in her face, and Emma felt absurdly threatened.

‘Mrs Reid has no comment at this stage, I’m afraid, Sally.’

Emma was relieved to find Leanne had come up behind her and was now positioning herself between Emma and Sally Freeland, so that the journalist’s body was all but obscured from view and only her face appeared, poking over Leanne’s shoulder like it was on a spring. The face didn’t appear too pleased.

‘Perhaps I could leave my card. You know, the other mothers have talked to me and found it very therapeutic. And, obviously, we could make a sizeable contribution to whatever charity you—’

‘Thank you, Sally. Mrs Reid would appreciate a bit of privacy right now, but I’m sure she’ll be in touch if she decides to talk to the press.’

The last thing Emma saw before the door closed was Sally Freeland’s finely plucked eyebrows arched into two mountain peaks.

‘Didn’t take them long,’ said Leanne, leading the way back to the kitchen.

Emma didn’t answer. Now that Sally Freeland had gone, she was feeling weak all of a sudden. It was the déjà vu, she supposed, the sense that it was happening all over again: Leanne in the kitchen, the press at the door. All day, since the second she’d heard her daughter’s name on the radio, the feelings had been building inside her and now they threatened to overwhelm her entirely. Each time another girl died, it was like experiencing Tilly’s death all over again.

‘Leanne, I have to ask. Was it the same? The writing on the leg? Is it definitely him?’

Leanne’s expression visibly softened, as if someone was smudging it like a charcoal drawing.

‘I’m sorry, Emma. You know I’d tell you if I could.’

Emma nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Leanne carried on giving them details about Poppy Glover, reading from the notes the police had made last night while she’d still been missing, while there was still hope – where she went to school, the address of the ballet class she’d attended last year, her favourite playground ride, her friends, how she spent her time online looking at websites about puppies and had worn down her parents so much that they’d decided to get her one for her next birthday, the birthday she would no longer have.

Watching Leanne’s face gradually slacken, the animation draining slowly away as time and time again they drew a blank, Emma was seized by a ridiculous notion to tell her about the photograph of Tilly she’d found in Guy’s desk drawer. It would be an offering, a form of compensation for them failing to make a connection between the two girls. She opened her mouth, rolling the words around on her tongue. Then closed it again. What would she say, after all? That the picture had triggered a memory, but she didn’t know exactly what it meant? That Tilly had loved matching things? She could just imagine how Guy would roll his eyes, and Leanne would smile her dimpled smile, but she wouldn’t understand what Emma was trying to say. And why on earth should she, when Emma herself didn’t understand what she was trying to say?

A woman’s voice came blaring out of the blue, belting out an up-tempo song about never getting back together and making them all jump, and Emma lunged for her phone on the table.

She glanced at the caller display.

‘Oh. It’s Helen. Helen Purvis.’

‘Call her back later,’ said Guy.

But Emma stood up and walked towards the window, her back to the other two in case her expression gave away the excitement that was flaring up. All day she’d been lugging around the familiar dead weight of her own isolation. It was like when Tilly died, that awful loneliness that no one, not even Guy, had been able to lift from her – until Helen got in touch, and there was finally that relief of being understood.

‘Emma? It’s shit, isn’t it? Are you OK?’

Emma felt something inside her, which she hadn’t even been aware she was clenching, slowly relaxing and unfurling.

‘Not really. And yes, it is shit.’

‘How many have you got outside?’

‘I don’t know. Haven’t really checked. That Sally woman just rang the doorbell …’

Too late she remembered about that business with Simon Purvis. No, that wasn’t his name, was it? He was the stepdad. He had a different surname. Howard? Was that it? No,
Hewitt
. That was the one. Simon Hewitt. Hadn’t there been some kind of relationship going on between him and that blonde journalist?

‘Oh, she’s back, is she? Might have known. Vulture.’

Helen’s voice was clipped and Emma was sorry she’d brought it up.

‘Leanne is here now,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘We haven’t been much help, though. It’s so awful, isn’t it? That poor mother. I don’t know if I can bear it.’

That last sentence was said very quietly, almost under her breath. Guy and Leanne were talking in the background, but Emma couldn’t help feeling that they were listening to everything she said.

‘I know. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? What she’s going through right now?’

For a few moments they both fell silent, Emma swaying by the window, the phone pressed to her ear.

‘I think we should have a Megan’s Angels meeting, don’t you? Not now, obviously, but soon. It might be too soon for the Glovers, but I think the rest of us need a bit of support. How are the girls handling it?’

Emma shrugged. ‘They don’t show much. You know how it is.’

Again the relief that Helen, of all people, did know how it was.

‘Yes, Rory is the same. Bottling it all up. He’s even making a fuss about coming to the meetings now, even though I know once he’s there he gets so much out of it. He still struggles with the guilt, of course.’

‘Poor Rory.’

‘Yeah, well, the rest of the time “Poor Rory” is a right pain in the bum, so I wouldn’t get too sympathetic.’

Helen was only trying to lighten things up but part of Emma resented it. Surely they shouldn’t feel the need to do that in front of each other?

‘Is Jo with you?’

‘I’m expecting her any minute. I’m even making an apple tray bake. Can you believe it? I pulled the recipe off the internet and it turns out to be from a kids’ cookery site and it actually says, “Ask your grown-up to turn the oven on.” You’d think after all this time, I’d have got past the cake-baking stage, wouldn’t you? It’s Jo, it’s not the bloody Queen!’

When Emma came off the phone and rejoined the others, Leanne and Guy were talking stiltedly about his company and how they’d been affected by the financial crisis. ‘I suppose the best you could say is that we weathered the downturn,’ Guy said.

‘How’s Helen?’ asked Leanne as Emma slid back into her seat, in front of her long-cold tea.

‘Upset. As you’d expect. She’s being hounded by the press, she says.’

‘That’s because she invites it.’ Guy had always been critical of the way Helen made herself available to the newspapers and TV cameras.

It infuriated Emma. ‘She just wants to see this guy caught – and if publicity is what it takes to catch him, then that’s the price she’s willing to pay. She’s not exactly attention-seeking for the sake of it, you know, Guy.’

‘All right, all right. I know.’ Guy was looking away, and Emma knew he was probably wishing he hadn’t brought it up. The issue of publicity had always been a bone of contention between them. Emma had been willing to talk to the press just to keep Tilly’s memory alive in people’s minds, even though the thought of that kind of exposure of their private grief made her feel sick. But Guy flatly refused. He thought it was ghoulish, he said it was turning their daughter’s death into a freak show. And Emma was relieved they’d said no after Fiona Botsford’s awful experience of being interviewed. Hadn’t that been by Sally thingy as well? But sometimes she felt guilty, that she’d betrayed Tilly by not shouting louder and sharing her photo album with the world so that everyone knew who she’d been, and what the world had lost.