Losing You (7 page)

‘Yes. I mean, there’ve been… but yes, basically.’

‘Mmm. Does Charlotte have a mobile phone?’

‘I’ve been ringing it. No answer. I’ve rung the friend she was with last night. I’ve rung the newsagent to check she did the paper round. I’ve spoken to her best friend. Nobody knows where she’s got to.’

I wanted him to tell me it was nothing to worry about, and when he did I felt frustrated because I knew he was wrong. ‘I know Charlie,’ I said insistently. ‘I
know
this isn’t in character. Something’s wrong. We have to find her.’

‘Ms Landry,’ he said kindly, ‘I understand what teenagers are like. I’ve got one myself.’

‘You don’t know what
Charlie
’s like.’

‘Teenagers,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘go missing all the time. You wouldn’t believe how often they’re reported missing and then they turn up, a few hours later, the next day. I’m sure your daughter will come home soon. Have you had an argument recently?’

‘No.’

That wasn’t strictly true, of course. I rarely lose my temper, but Charlie quarrels with everyone, whether they participate or not. She has a strictly confrontational attitude towards the world. When I picture her, she has her hands on her hips or her arms folded provocatively. She challenges people, she glowers, she squabbles, she storms out of rooms and slams doors. But she’s like Rory, or like Rory used to be: quick to anger and quick to apologize or forgive, generous and contrite to a fault, never bearing grudges. She argued with me yesterday, and she argued with me the day before that and probably the day before that as well, about the fact that she’d lost her physics coursework on her computer and hadn’t backed it up, about whether she and Ashleigh could go to London for a concert on a school day, about why she had to go to her father’s when there was a big party on Sandling Island that evening, about eating an entire pack of ice-cream but leaving the empty tub in the freezer as an irritating decoy, about borrowing my shoes without asking and breaking the
heel… But those were small tiffs, the daily stuff of Charlie’s life.

‘No,’ I repeated. ‘We hadn’t argued.’

‘Boyfriend trouble?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Charlie doesn’t have a boyfriend.’

‘As far as you know,’ said PC Mahoney, smiling humorously at me.

‘She would have told me,’ I said. ‘She tells me things.’ For she did. Charlie gave me her anger and impatience, but she also offered me her confidences, often in a touchingly candid way. She’d told me about the boys who’d asked her out; she’d confessed about getting horribly drunk on Bacardi Breezers at Ashleigh’s house, so that she’d thrown up on the neat green lawn; she’d asked my advice about spots and period pains, talked about how she felt stifled by her father’s over-protectiveness. ‘Look, this is all irrelevant.’

‘How about at school? Was she happy? Any trouble with her peer group?’

‘Nothing that would have made her run away from home.’

‘There was trouble, then?’

‘She was bullied for a bit,’ I said shortly. ‘She was the new girl and didn’t fit in. You know how vicious girls can be in a group. But that’s all stopped now.’

‘Mmmm.’ He stood up suddenly, tucking his notebook back into his pocket. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Charlotte’s bedroom.’

‘What for?’

‘Up the stairs, is it?’

He was already on his way, and I followed him.

‘I’ve already looked. There’s nothing to see.’

‘This one?’

‘Yes.’

PC Mahoney stood stolidly in the doorway, gazing in at the catastrophe of Charlie’s room. The air in here smelt thickly fragrant: Charlie loved creams, lotions and bath oils. After she had taken one of her epic showers or lain for hours in a sudsy bath, she would drip her way into her room and rub cream into her body, spray perfume over it and into her coppery hair.

‘Not very tidy, is it?’ he remarked mildly.

He stooped down, picked up a Chinese wrap that lay at his feet, like a bright, wounded bird, and placed it carefully on the unmade bed. He frowned at the havoc around him. He stepped further into the room, his substantial frame making the space seem smaller and darker. There were lace knickers on the floor, two bras, fishnet tights, a puddle of trousers, as if Charlie had only just stepped out of them. There was a box of chocolates a boy had given her recently, most of which had gone. A notebook with her slapdash writing in it. A poster of a rock star I didn’t recognize was coming away from the wall, a photograph of a younger me and Rory, holding hands, smiled from the corner. A collection of postcards Blu-tacked above her bed showed pictures of a giant stone foot from the British Museum, a white beach, a blue Matisse collage. A mosquito net was suspended from the ceiling above Charlie’s pillow and PC Mahoney had to bend his head to avoid getting caught in the white gauze. His thick black boots moved softly across the carpet and I could almost hear Charlie’s voice hissing in my ear, ‘Get him out!’ There was an empty beer can next to the overflowing waste-paper basket and he touched it with his foot as if it was evidence.

‘Is anything missing?’

I gazed around in despair. I opened the wardrobe and peered inside. Charlie’s clothes are a mixture of exotic and grungy: black jeans, a flounced purple skirt, an old leather jacket, an embroidered gypsy blouse, a tiny red dress, stompy boots, slouchy trainers, camisoles and strappy tops, grey and black hoodies, T-shirts with incomprehensible slogans stretched across the breast. Most things lay scattered around the floor. I closed the door. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said cautiously.

‘Nothing she would have taken with her if she was thinking of staying somewhere else?’

‘I don’t know.’

I glanced round again, searching for absences in the frenetic jumble, spaces.

‘Her mobile, for instance.’

‘She had that with her last night, so of course it’s not here.’ I looked at the desk. Her computer was turned off. I picked up a shoebox. Inside, there was a pair of long, jangly earrings, a bath bomb, a snarled-up bead necklace, a strip of four passport photographs of her and Ashleigh squashed into the booth, making silly faces for the camera, a folded square of lined paper, which, when I opened it, read, ‘Remember dinner money’, an inky rubber, a stick of glue, a bottle of hardened clear nail varnish, two pen lids and several hairbands. I put the box down and stared at the surface in concentration. Clearasil, deodorant, CDs, her pencil case. Suddenly I saw it. Saw what wasn’t there.

‘Her washbag,’ I said. ‘It’s blue with lighter blue patterns on it, I think. I can’t see it.’ I picked up the towels and threw them to one side. ‘It’s not here. Or her makeup bag. It’s pink. Maybe it’s in one of her bags. That’s odd.’

I started picking up all the garments on the floor and putting them in a pile to make sure nothing was hidden beneath. I held the pyjama bottoms and frowned at them, suddenly breathless.

‘What?’ asked PC Mahoney.

‘She wears these with a nightshirt. Where’s the nightshirt?’

‘There’s a simple explanation, Ms Landry.’

‘What?’

‘These are all items she would have taken to a sleepover.’

‘She didn’t.’

‘She didn’t take them, you mean? You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely sure. She wasn’t going to stay over. She just went round there for a party. Tam suggested she stay over. She called me to say she wasn’t coming home but she’d be back the following morning. I know she didn’t have her things because we talked about it. I even offered to bring them round to her, but she laughed and said she’d clean her teeth with her finger and have a shower and change her clothes when she got back. I don’t know if she had her purse with her. Just her phone.’

‘There you are, then.’

I sat on the bed and rubbed my eyes. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘When did she take them? I mean, they were here last night, so when did she take them? Why? We were going on holiday.’

‘Ms Landry, I know it must be very distressing but we see things like this all the time.’

‘Like what? What are you saying?’

‘For some reason Charlotte has gone to stay somewhere else for a while. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’

‘No.’

‘She’s taken her makeup bag, her night things, her wash-bag, her mobile and maybe her purse.’

‘She was happy. It’s not right, it can’t be. There’s some other explanation. Not this. She wouldn’t.’

‘Your daughter is fifteen years old, two months off sixteen. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what a difficult age that can be. It sounds as if she’s got a lot on her plate at the moment. Her father has left, you have a new boyfriend, she’s had problems at school.’

I closed my eyes and tried to think rationally. The evidence was there, incontrovertible. At some point, Charlie had come home, taken her things and gone again. I couldn’t argue with that, yet at the same time I remembered that yesterday, before she’d gone out, she had seemed – had
been
, I was sure – carefree and affectionate with me. We had talked eagerly about Florida. We’d even discussed what clothes she would pack. She’d said she’d have to wax her bikini line. She had even been nice about Christian, kissing my cheek and saying that she supposed he was all right, really. ‘She would have told me if something was wrong. I know she would.’

‘Teenagers have secrets, Ms Landry. My wife often says that –’

‘So what’s going to happen now?’

‘As soon as you hear from her, get in touch with us.’

‘No, I mean what are
you
going to do?’

‘We’ll put her on our lists, keep an eye out – you can come down to the police station later and make a statement.’

‘That’s it? That’s all?’

‘She’s probably quite all right, just needs a bit of time to think things through.’

I looked at his pleasant, unconcerned face. ‘I’m afraid I
don’t agree with you. If she’s run away, that’s because something happened to make her do so. You may well be correct – she could simply walk in through the door at any moment. But presumably it’s the job of the police to think about the bad scenarios as well as the good ones. That’s why I called you in the first place. We can’t just wait and see. We have to find her now.’

‘I understand your concern, but your daughter is nearly sixteen.’

‘She’s fifteen. She’s a child,’ I said. ‘Please help me find my daughter.’

The phone rang loudly and I started up off the bed.

‘That’s probably her right now,’ said PC Mahoney.

I ran down the stairs two at a time and picked up the receiver, my heart thudding with hope. ‘Yes?’

‘Nina, it’s Rick.’

‘Oh.’

‘I wanted to apologize for the rumpus we caused earlier.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I hope Karen’s all right.’

‘Has Charlie turned up?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t.’

‘I’m so sorry. And your holiday… I wish there was something I could do, Nina, but I’m stuck at the hospital. Have you thought of calling the police?’

‘They’re here now. And they think –’ I broke off.

‘What?’

‘They think she’s run away,’ I continued reluctantly. ‘It doesn’t make sense, Rick. I don’t think Charlie would do that. She seemed absolutely fine yesterday.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t be much help,’ he said. ‘I’m in the middle of things here. All I’d say, as a teacher – as Charlie’s teacher
– is that teenagers often don’t behave in the ways you’d expect.’

‘That’s what I’d say, in your position. That’s what the police officer says, too. He doesn’t think there’s anything to worry about.’

‘I’m sure there isn’t.’

‘Thanks, Rick. I’ve got to go now. She might ring and I’ve got to keep the line clear.’ I remembered where he was calling from. ‘I’m sorry, Rick. How is Karen?’

‘The doctor’s seeing her now.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’d better go. Let me know when Charlie gets back. She will, you know.’

I put the phone down and turned to PC Mahoney as he came down the stairs.

‘Not her?’

‘No. You’re going?’

‘I’m sure she’ll come walking in through that door right as rain…’

‘And if she doesn’t?’ I said dully.

‘I’ll send a patrol car round the island now, to look out for her. Perhaps you could give me a recent photograph of her.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Look, here.’

I pulled the photograph they had sent me for my birthday off the fridge – Charlie and Jackson, smiling at me, their eyes bright in their young and lovely faces. ‘This was taken a few days ago,’ I said.

‘Thank you.’ He studied it for a few seconds. ‘Pretty girl.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, as I said…’

I opened the door for him. I could hear the sea and the wind in the masts of the boats in the yard. A few drops of rain splattered against my burning face. I closed the door after him and leaned against it, dizzy with the unreality of what was happening. My daughter – my beloved, tempestuous, impulsive, honourable Charlie – had run away from home. From me. I took deep, steady breaths through the heaviness in my chest, then went into the kitchen and splashed water on my face. ‘Right,’ I said.

I dialled Christian’s mobile.

‘I’m on the M25. Where are you?’ he said.

‘Charlie’s run away.’

‘What? Charlie has? But why?’

‘I can’t talk now. We’re not coming.’ There was silence on the line. I thought we’d been cut off. ‘Hello? Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here. What’s happening?’

‘What do you think’s happening? Go without us. I’ll be in touch. I’m so sorry.’

‘Nina, listen. I’m sure it’ll be all right, but I’ll come back and help you look. It’s going to be all right.’

‘You’re breaking up,’ I said, and ended the call.

I hadn’t eaten anything all day and suddenly felt terribly hungry. I was trembling violently and even thought I might faint. I went to the kitchen, found some breakfast cereal in a cupboard and ate it as it was, in handfuls, without milk. I filled the electric kettle with water. I rinsed out the cafetière. I had to dismantle it and hold the pieces under the running tap to rid it of the last of the coffee grounds, cleaning them away with my fingers in the fiercely cold water. I took a pack of coffee beans from the fridge, ground them and tipped
some into the cafetière. The water boiled and I poured it on to the coffee. I also made a piece of toast and marmalade. I sat at the kitchen table and gulped the hot, black, strong coffee and ate the toast in slow, deliberate bites. After all, what did it matter now? I had lots and lots of time.