The Missing (20 page)

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, inwardly cursing my lack of a car. I looked up and down the road for an escape route, but I couldn’t see how I was going to get away.

‘A little bird told me that you were the one who found
Jenny’s
body, Sarah,’ Carol cooed in my ear. ‘That wasn’t the impression you gave me, was it?’

‘Look, I don’t want to talk about it.’ My mind was racing. Who the hell had told her I had found Jenny? Not the Shepherds, not Vickers, certainly not Blake – but Valerie Wade was a possibility. She wouldn’t be able to resist Carol’s flattery. It was irrelevant: what mattered was that Carol knew.

And if she knew that, she might know a lot more, like what was going on with the investigation. I stopped thinking about how to get away from her and started to plan how I might find out what she knew. I needed a new source if I was to know what was going on: Blake had made it quite clear that I should stay out of it, so he wouldn’t tell me what was happening. Besides, he and I had other things to think about. Without warning, a series of not entirely welcome images flooded into my mind: Blake moving over me, his face intent. His hands, slow and sure, tanned darker than my skin. A shiver raced over my body. Now was not the time. I closed my eyes for a half-second, then dragged myself back from Blake’s bed in time to hear Carol say, ‘Come on, Sarah. We’ll talk off the record. I won’t write about anything you don’t want me to cover.’

‘And you won’t identify me?’ I said, trying to look as if I was still considering whether or not to speak with her, hoping to hell she hadn’t noticed my attention waver.

‘Definitely not. I’ll keep you out of it completely.’ I could see the anticipation of victory gleaming in Carol’s eyes.

‘OK then,’ I said, affecting to be reluctant, and I followed
as
she headed for a nearby coffee shop. She ordered sandwiches for both of us and made a big show of paying for them. She was in control and she wanted me to know it.

The coffee shop was small and dark. Carol led the way to a window table and took out a tape recorder. ‘Do you mind?’ She checked that it was working. ‘I like to be completely accurate.’

I bet
, I thought.

‘So,’ she said as the waitress dumped two china mugs brimming with dark-brown tea on our table. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about Jenny.’

With as little drama and emotion as possible, I described my experience of teaching Jenny, and my overall impression of her. I tried to make what I said as bland and unquotable as possible. ‘She was very nice. Very hardworking. She always tried her best.’

Carol leaned in. ‘And then – what happened? She wasn’t in school, was she?’

I shook my head.

‘Did you know she was missing?’

‘Not until her father came to the school on Monday morning,’ I admitted. ‘He was obviously concerned that she hadn’t been seen since Saturday, and wanted to speak with her classmates. No one knew anything, though.’

‘Right.’ Carol was nodding encouragingly. I doubted she’d heard anything new so far. ‘And then you went out for a run.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then you found her,’ she supplied.

‘Mm.’ I looked out of the window.

‘Tell me about that,’ Carol said after a couple of seconds, when it became clear to her that I wasn’t planning to expand on it.

‘Well, it’s hard to remember exactly what happened. I saw something strange, realised it was a body, and called the police. They came, and the rest you know.’

‘So when did you realise you knew her? When did you recognise Jenny?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Did you look closely at the body when you found it?’

I had seen the fading daylight on her pale, cold skin. I had seen the row of dry half-moons her teeth had carved in her lower lip.

‘I didn’t really get that close,’ I said smoothly.

It was time to turn the tables on Carol; she’d had enough from me. ‘You must know a lot about what’s going on if you found out I was the one who discovered the body.’

‘I have my sources.’ Carol sipped her tea smugly.

‘What’s happening now? Have they got a suspect?’

‘They’re looking at a couple of people, but to be honest, I don’t think they know what’s going on. They didn’t get anything from the body. Nothing usable for forensics. The girl was completely clean.’

That was interesting. ‘Did they find out how she died?’

Carol looked at me shrewdly. ‘They announced it was drowning, didn’t they?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, realising I had made a mistake.

‘Didn’t it look like drowning to you? You saw the body. Why does drowning seem weird? Wasn’t she near a pond?’

I shrugged. ‘I must have forgotten.’

Carol shook her head, annoyed. ‘No, you knew there was something odd about it. You’re trying to pull a fast one on me, aren’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ I said, injecting a note of outraged innocence into my denial that didn’t fool Carol for a second.

‘You know very well, Sarah, that the body wasn’t near water, was it? But that’s because she didn’t die there. They were able to tell that she drowned in chemically treated water.’

‘What do you mean?’ I was genuinely puzzled.

‘Tap water. She was drowned in a house. In a bath, or a sink, or something.’ Carol’s tone was matter of fact. She dumped a spoonful of sugar into her tea and stirred it briskly, the metal clinking against the thick china mug.

I squeezed my hands together under the table, so Carol couldn’t see them shaking. Someone had coldly ended Jenny’s life, in a bathroom or a kitchen. They had turned somewhere domestic and safe into a slaughterhouse.

‘How are the Shepherds coping?’ I asked, suddenly aware that a silence had fallen between us.

‘Mum’s distraught, obviously,’ she said through a mouthful of bacon sandwich. ‘I haven’t had a usable quote from her. She’s either zonked on pills or in tears. I doubt the police have been able to get anything either. Dad – well, Dad’s another story. He’s angry. I’ve never met anyone wound so tight.’

Fear had burned in his eyes when I had first seen him. The anger had come later. I picked at my food. ‘It affects different people in different ways.’

‘Well, you’d know that, obviously,’ Carol said.

I looked up, suddenly wary. The journalist was staring at me, eyes as flinty as ever.

‘I was doing some digging in the files, you see – much like you were back there in the library, I imagine. And what did I find? Another child who went missing, quite a while ago. Fifteen years, is it?’

‘Sixteen,’ I said, knowing that there was no point in prevaricating.

She smiled without humour. ‘That’s right. Because you were only a little girl, weren’t you? In fact, I was surprised I’d recognised you. But it came to me straight away. Imagine how surprised I was, Sarah, to see your picture in the paper with your poor parents. I wasn’t put off by the name change – it was dead easy to check that out. Mother’s maiden name, isn’t it?’

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.

‘So I was thinking,’ Carol said, taking another huge bite of her sandwich and speaking with a wad of white bread, bacon and ketchup muffling the words, ‘I’d write a little piece about what it’s like for the family in these cases. You know, what happens to the ones who are left behind.’

Involuntarily, I made a little noise indicative of dissent. Carol picked up on it. ‘Oh, I’m not asking you to cooperate. I’m telling you. Did you think I didn’t notice you getting the inside track on the investigation? Did you think you were going to get away without paying me back for that? I think it could be a fantastic human-interest story, don’t you? Two tragedies in one place, and you’re the connection. It’s almost … well,
creepy
, really. And I’m
the
only one who’s put it together, which makes it a very saleable proposition.’

‘Look,’ I said weakly, ‘I really don’t want to say anything.’

‘No,
you
look. There are two ways we can do this. I can put together a nice little piece with your help that will get the readers snivelling into their morning paper, or I can write something myself that goes through every rumour that there ever was about you and your family and your poor dead dad, because everyone got to thinking that he might know more than he let on, didn’t they? And now there’s this. I just think there’s something weird about you being so involved in this. You’re a proper little tragedy junkie, aren’t you? Probably miss the attention you used to get. Everyone’s forgotten Charlie, haven’t they? Do you really think that’s fair? Don’t you want people to remember him?’

I didn’t say anything and she leaned over, her breasts settling and spreading against the greasy Formica tabletop. ‘It’s up to you, Sarah. You can talk to me or not. I can write it without you. Or …’ and she smiled, ‘I could just go straight to your mother.’

‘No, don’t,’ I said, distressed. ‘Leave her out of this.’

‘Why should I? She might have valuable insights for me.’ Carol sat back in her chair. ‘You know how your dad killed himself, Sarah—’

‘It was an accident.’

She jumped on it. ‘An accident that set you and your mum up for life. Nice little wad of insurance money. Your mum hasn’t had to work since.’

It was true, she hadn’t, and she was none the better for it. I stood up and grabbed my bag, too angry to speak.

‘Before you rush out of here, just have a think about this,’ Carol said. ‘If you cooperate with me, we can have a nice little chat and I’ll make you look like an angel. I won’t even give your new name away. You get a chance to set the record straight; I get a nice human-interest piece that should go well in the Sunday papers. I’m thinking the
Sunday Times
would be a good fit for it. Maybe the
Observer
. Something high-end, anyway.’

I hesitated, torn. I didn’t trust Carol. On the other hand, I could certainly trust her to make me look bad. ‘I’ve worked hard for my privacy. I don’t want to be photographed. I don’t want anyone to be able to recognise me from the article.’

‘Of course – that won’t be a problem. Come on,’ she wheedled. ‘It’s up to you.’

It really wasn’t. I knew I should tell her to go to hell. I knew no good would come of talking to her. But I couldn’t take the risk.

I sat down on the edge of the chair again, defeated. ‘What do you want to know?’

The smell of school on the first day back: chalk dust, fresh paint, disinfectant, new books. At the front of the classroom, my new teacher – new for the class and new to the school – is tall and slim, with very short dark hair and green eyes, and her name is Miss Bright.

As the last of the class file in, I fidget, excited and a little bit nervous. My dad has bought me a schoolbag and matching pencil case with Beauty from
Beauty and the Beast
on them, and I notice Denise Blackwell looking at them as she sits down near me. I turn and smile at her. I’ve always wanted to be friends with her. Denise has almost-white fair hair and tiny stud earrings that glint in her ears and a dainty, toes-out way of standing.

Instead of smiling back, Denise looks straight at me for a minute, then looks away and starts whispering with Karen Combes – Karen, who has a permanently snotty nose, who wet herself
on
our first day at school. I can tell the whispering is about me: Karen leans forwards so she can stare at me while Denise is speaking to her. I frown and put my hand up to my head to hide my face.

A figure comes and stands by my desk: Miss Bright. ‘Oh dear. Are you bored already? That’s not a very good start, is it? You look like you’re falling asleep. Come on, sit up straight. Make an effort.’

Everyone in the class laughs, a little too loudly, hoping that Miss Bright will like them. My face is flaming. I stare straight down into my lap, my hair hanging down.

‘What’s your name, sleepyhead?’

‘Sarah Barnes,’ I say very quietly.

Miss Bright stands there for a second, not saying anything. Then she pats my arm. ‘Don’t worry. Just try to pay attention, all right?’

I look up to see her walking away. Her face is red, as if she’s embarrassed. I can’t think why for a minute, and then I realise. She’s been told to be nice to me because of Charlie.

I’m not like the others any more. I’m different.

At breaktime, I ask if I can stay in the classroom. I tell Miss Bright that I don’t feel well and she lets me sit with my head on my arms while everyone else goes outside to play. I make clouds on the shiny surface of my desk with my breath. The classroom is silent, apart from the ticking
of
the clock on the wall. I stay there again at lunchtime. Everyone else goes to the lunchroom to eat, and then outside to play. I can hear them outside, laughing and screaming.

When the bell rings at the end of the day, I get up and join the others who are queuing by the door. I can feel that everyone is looking at me. I look down at my hands, tight on the handle of my new schoolbag, until Miss Bright opens the door.

Mum’s late. Other parents are late, too, and all around me children are playing chasing and jumping about, laughing and shouting at the tops of their voices. I keep my eyes fixed on the school gate, where Mum should be. Every time I see a dark head there, my heart lifts, but it’s never her. Eventually I wander over to the gate so I can see more of the street, then slip outside. The playground is too noisy: my head hurts.

As soon as I step outside the gate, I realise that I have made a mistake. Kids, including classmates of mine, mill about, unsupervised. Denise comes towards me, Karen in tow. I can’t go back into the playground, or run away. It’s too late. Denise leans in, too close to me, and says in a low voice, ‘You think you’re special, don’t you?’

I shake my head.

‘There was a letter about you from the school. They told us we had to be nice to you.’ Denise’s
face
was mean, her eyes narrow. ‘Did you cry when your brother ran away?’

I don’t know what the right answer is. ‘Yes,’ I say at last.

‘Cry baby,’ Denise hisses, and Karen starts to laugh.

‘No, I didn’t,’ I say, feeling desperate. ‘I didn’t cry. Not really.’