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Copyright
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © Elisabeth Carpenter 2017
Elisabeth Carpenter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008223519
Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008223526
Version: 2019-03-01
Dedication
For Dad
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two: Stephanie
Chapter Three: Maggie
Chapter Four: Stephanie
Chapter Five
Chapter Six: Maggie
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight: Stephanie
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten: Maggie
Chapter Eleven: Stephanie
Chapter Twelve: Maggie
Chapter Thirteen: Stephanie
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen: Stephanie
Chapter Sixteen: Maggie
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen: Maggie
Chapter Nineteen: Stephanie
Chapter Twenty: Maggie
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two: Maggie
Chapter Twenty-Three: Stephanie
Chapter Twenty-Four: Maggie
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six: Stephanie
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Stephanie
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty: Stephanie
Chapter Thirty-One: Stephanie
Chapter Thirty-Two: Maggie
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four: Maggie
Chapter Thirty-Five: Stephanie
Chapter Thirty-Six: Maggie
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Stephanie
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty: Stephanie
Chapter Forty-One: Maggie
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three: Maggie
Chapter Forty-Four: Stephanie
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six: Maggie
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight: Stephanie
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty: Maggie
Chapter Fifty-One: Stephanie
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three: Stephanie
Chapter Fifty-Four: Maggie
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six: Maggie
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Stephanie
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Maggie
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Stephanie
Chapter Sixty: Maggie
Chapter Sixty-One: Stephanie
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
I squint at him. The sun’s in my eyes and he looks like a shadow monster.
‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got to get home. I’m only meant to be getting sweets from the paper shop, then straight back.’
He crouches in front of me. He’s wearing a woolly hat, which is funny as it’s really warm today.
‘But your mum asked me to fetch you.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.
I fold my arms. When I tilt my head, his face blocks out the sun.
‘You might be lying,’ I say. ‘Mummy warned me about men with sweets and puppies.’
The man laughs, like Gramps does when he’s Father Christmas.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘What’s she like? She’s such a worrywart.’
He’s right: she is. I drop my arms to my sides.
‘Anyway,’ he says, holding out both of his hands, ‘I’ve no sweets and I’ve no puppies. My name’s George – she’s always talking about me, isn’t she? She’s waiting at the bus station, says she’s got a surprise for you, for being a good girl at school.’ He taps his nose. ‘And we all know what you’ve been asking for.’
‘Really?’ I try not to jump up and down. ‘They’ve got me a horse?’
He winks and puts his finger on his lips. I try to wink too, but it turns into a messy blink. He holds out his hand, and I take it.
I’m allowed to sit on the front seat, but I’m not allowed to tell Mummy. On the radio, a song plays that I know: ‘Ninety-Nine Red Balloons’. I’m warm inside because Mummy sings it a lot. She sings it in German sometimes: Noin and noinsick or something. It’s an old one, but I like it.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
He’s looking at me as though I’ve got spots all over my face.
‘I think so.’
Mummy’s always worrying about me. When I had a bad cough in the middle of the night three weeks ago, she ran a hot bath and called the ambulance, but it was a false alarm.
He stops the car at a mini car park on the side of the road, just as the song is ending. Without his hat on, he looks older than he did before. He puts his hand on my forehead.
‘You do feel a bit hot.’
As soon as he says it, I feel it. I’m burning up.
He turns to the back seat and grabs a plastic carrier bag. I can’t read the supermarket’s name, but I recognise the red and green. He gets out a flask and pours a drink.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Your mum gave me this in case you got car sick.’
After I’ve drunk it, I give the plastic cup-lid back to him. I’m really tired. There are things I have to say to him, like, Mummy’s never mentioned anyone called George, and, I never get car sick, but I can’t because my mouth doesn’t work any more. I try to smile at him. I wouldn’t say those things to him anyway ’cos I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Has he turned the radio off? Everything’s quiet. I can’t stop my eyelids from shutting.
Chapter Two
Stephanie
Emma’s running up and down the street. Angie, her next-door neighbour, is standing at her gate in her dressing gown.
‘What’s happening, Mum?’ asks Jamie, sitting beside me in the passenger seat. ‘Why’s Aunt Emma outside shouting? I thought we were coming for tea.’
‘I don’t know, love. Wait in the car.’
I get out. Angie pulls her dressing gown tight around her middle, shivering, even though it’s not that cold yet.
‘She can’t find Grace,’ she says.
‘What do you mean she can’t find her? Where’s she left her?’
‘Nowhere. She hasn’t come home from school yet.’
It’s nearly half past four.
‘Shit.’
I run after Emma, following her into the newsagent’s a few doors down. She’s showing Mr Anderson a picture of Grace on her phone, even though he already knows what she looks like. He shakes his head.
‘I told you ten minutes ago,’ he says gently. ‘She came in, but she didn’t buy anything. She came in with her friends, and then they went. I thought they all left together. Assumed she was with them.’
‘Did you actually see her leave?’ Emma rushes to the door to the back room of the shop. ‘Could she have sneaked through here? Maybe she’s hiding from someone. Grace!’
The door to the storeroom squeaks as it opens.
‘I doubt it, but you’re welcome to look.’
‘Angie’s calling the police,’ I say.
Emma glances at me, seeing me for the first time. She grabs hold of my arm. It’s dim inside. I pat my hand along the wall for the light switch, flicking it on. Boxes of sweets, crisps, toilet rolls are stacked up in rows – the back room smells sweet, like Nice biscuits.
‘Grace! Grace, it’s me, Mummy. I’m not cross. Come out, love. No one’s angry at you for hiding.’
She moves every cardboard box away from the wall. Nothing. But then, Grace is not the type to play hide and seek, especially in a dark back room of a shop – she’s too sensible to do anything like that. Emma stands in the middle of the room, both hands on her head.
‘It’s not been long,’ I say. ‘Perhaps she’s gone to a friend’s.’
She wrinkles her nose – it’s her way of stopping tears falling from her eyes.
‘She’s usually home ages ago. I’ve phoned her friends – none of them have seen her.’
‘Did she arrange something at school and you’ve forgotten?’
‘I’ve driven to the school already – it’s locked, there weren’t any lights on.’
‘Who was the last to see her?’
‘Um.’ She shakes her head, her eyes flick left and right. ‘Angie’s daughter, Hannah.’
I grab her by the hand. ‘Thanks, Mr Anderson,’ I call to him before leading her out of the shop.
We run past Emma’s neighbours – they’re all standing on their doorsteps now.
‘Have you seen Grace?’ I shout, but they just shake their heads. Bloody useless people, staring at us.
‘It’ll be getting dark soon,’ says Emma, bending over to catch her breath. ‘She’s never home late, never. I need Mum here, can you ring her?’
‘Of course.’ I get my phone from my pocket. I dial Mum’s landline – cursing her that she still doesn’t have a mobile. There’s no reply. I leave a message for her to get here, but don’t tell her why – not over the phone. ‘Someone must have seen Grace – she can’t have just vanished off the street, not so close to home.’
It’s not only her I’m trying to convince.
When we get to Emma’s house, two police cars are parked either side of my car.
‘Shit – Jamie.’
How could I have left him when Grace has disappeared? He might be thirteen, but you never know what kind of maniac is out there. I run over and open the passenger door; the window is open.
‘Have you found Grace?’ he says, his eyes wide.
‘Not yet. Are you okay? Did anyone come to the car?’
He shakes his head.
The police are guiding Emma through her front door.
‘Come on, Jamie.’
I offer my hand to help him out of the car like I used to when he was little, and he takes it.
Two detectives arrived ten minutes after I did. DI Lee Hines is sitting with a notepad resting on his knees. He’s sweating in a long grey overcoat that’s grubby around the cuffs; his tie is loose around his collar. DS Rachel Berry is standing near the living room door; she’s wearing a trouser suit. She hasn’t spoken yet, but she’s looking at us as though we’ve done something wrong.
Emma’s rocking forwards and backwards; her arms wrapped around herself. My hand is resting on hers, but I don’t think she realises I’m here. Where the hell is Mum? She doesn’t usually go out on a Monday evening. Grace has been missing for nearly an hour. I’ve tried to get through to her at least three times. I get out my phone and dial her number. Her machine answers, again. She must be on her way.
‘Is there any chance Grace could have gone to meet a friend that you don’t know?’ asks Detective Hines. ‘Does she talk to anyone online?’
He’s perched on the edge of the armchair that Matt usually sits in. Instead, Matt’s standing up with his hands going crazy – in his pockets, out of his pockets, through his hair. He looks out of the window, but the house lamps inside are too bright against the darkening sky outside. All I can see is the room reflected back at us.
The sound of the police helicopter gets louder as it flies over the house. Police officers traipse in and out, up and down the stairs. They open and shut cupboard doors, look under the stairs, in the bath, behind the shower curtain. Others are opening the upstairs hatch, pulling down the ladder. Their heavy footsteps are loud on the loft floorboards, even from down here.
Emma stops rocking.
‘Chat online? Of course she doesn’t. She’s only eight. She wouldn’t know how to do things like that.’
‘Does she have a laptop? A computer in her bedroom?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘She uses the family laptop for homework.’
Everyone turns to the machine on the desk in the corner of the room as though it might tell us where she is. The two detectives look at each other. I know what they’re thinking: surely this kid will have gone onto chat sites, Facebook, Twitter. But Grace would rather talk to her friends face to face; she’s too young for social media. The police don’t know she’s not the kind to want a mobile phone. I wish now that she were.
Matt walks over to the desk and turns his back on it.
‘I don’t know why you’re asking questions like this. She’s out there.’ His eyes are wide as he points to the window. He’s trembling; there are beads of sweat around his hairline. ‘It’s getting late, for fuck’s sake, and we’re just going over the same fucking things.’
I wince, and hope Jamie doesn’t hear from the kitchen – that he’s too distracted with his homework, but I doubt it – he’s probably listening to every word. He’ll be worried. Jamie and Grace are so close; he treats her like a little sister – they spend hours playing Minecraft together.
Emma’s cry pierces the room. Her shoulders are shaking as she buries her face in her hands. I grab her closer to me and put my arms around her. Her hair is in my face and it blots my tears. Grace is their only child. I can’t believe she’s not here. She should be at home, having her tea with us, talking about school, doing her homework.
DI Hines shifts in his chair and glances at DS Berry.
‘We have everyone we can spare looking for Grace.’ He writes something in his notepad. ‘Can we just go over it one more time?’
Matt runs his hands through his hair. He’s done it so many times his hair’s stringy with sweat. He looks up to the ceiling. If you didn’t know him, you’d think him religious, looking for guidance, but he’s not.
‘She walks home from school,’ says Emma, her voice barely audible. ‘Sometimes with Hannah, sometimes with Amelia – there are three of them usually, but I’ve spoken to their mums. Amelia’s said Grace and another friend decided to stop at the shop for sweets. She’s usually home by quarter to four at the very latest.’
‘So Amelia didn’t wait for Grace?’ says Hines, narrowing his eyes. ‘She just walked away? Does Grace often walk to the shop on her own?’
‘Grace is eight; she’s not a baby. The school’s only down the road. We’ve been through this three times,’ says Matt. ‘We’re repeating ourselves.’
The detective scratches his forehead with his pen. Perhaps he’s thinking that a few minutes ago Grace was too young for a computer, and now she’s old enough to walk home by herself. It feels as though Emma and Matt will be judged on the decisions they made for her.
‘Sometimes it’s the tiny details that are the most important.’
‘Why did we start letting her walk home from school?’ Emma says to Matt. She turns to the detective, wiping her face with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘They only started coming back by themselves last week – she’d been begging me for ages to let her – they’ve only been in Year 4 for three weeks. We … the other mums and I … told them they had to stick together no matter what. Every day last week I waited across the street from the school gates, followed them until they got to the newsagent’s. Then I’d run home so I could be there when she got back. I should’ve done that today – I thought they’d be fine, like they were last week.’
A thought runs through my mind that plants a heavy feeling in my stomach: what if someone else was watching Grace walk home today?
She went into the newsagent’s and never came out. How is that even possible? The image of Mr Anderson’s face comes into my head. He might have owned the shop for a few years, but how well does anyone know him?
‘Have you questioned Mr Anderson?’ Everyone looks at me and my face burns. ‘The newsagent, I mean.’
Hines gives a brief nod. Did he just roll his eyes?
‘Yes, yes.’
He doesn’t elaborate – they don’t give much away. He makes me feel stupid – guilty even – just by looking at me.
‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have taken her?’ he says. ‘A relative? Someone with a grudge?’
‘No, of course not,’ says Matt. ‘This is real life, not some bloody soap opera. We’re normal people. We don’t go around making enemies.’
My ears tingle as he says it. No.
There is someone, I want to say. But it shouldn’t be me saying that. Has Emma forgotten?
‘Did she argue with you before she left this morning? About something mundane, trivial even?’
‘Grace isn’t like that,’ says Matt. ‘We don’t argue in the morning.’
‘What time did you leave for work today?’
‘Just before eight.’
‘Mrs Harper – Emma.’
She looks up.
‘Did you and Grace argue before she left for school this morning?’
She frowns and shakes her head. She looks to the mantelpiece at the many photos of Grace. One of them is the obligatory school picture. By the time Jamie has left school I’ll have twelve – one for every year. I can’t breathe when I think that photo of Grace might be her last.
Hines writes in his notepad again and looks to me.
‘So just to get everyone’s name right. You’re Stephanie Palmer – Grace’s aunt?’
‘Yes,’ I say, too loud probably.
No one reacts. And why should they?
But it feels like a lie when I say it to a stranger.
My stomach is churning. I stand, swaying slightly, and squeeze past DS Berry in the doorway before rushing up the stairs. I get to the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
Chapter Three
Maggie
I don’t feel old enough for a shopping trolley, but I am. The handles on carrier bags these days cut my hands; they’re much too thin, too cheap. Monday means it’s meat and potato pie for tea, which means calling into the butcher’s, then the vegetable shop.
Everything aches, especially my knees. I’d spend all afternoon in the bath if I could, but I’m not sure I could get myself out of it. Besides, it’s my routine that keeps me from staring at the walls, the television, the photographs.
It’s raining – again. It’s always raining. Wearing my long raincoat and ridiculous matching hat I could be anyone. It’s like my invisible cloak.
‘Are you all right, Maggie?’
The voice makes me jump. I wish I were invisible. I look up, lifting the wide brim of my hat.
‘Oh, hello, Sandra. Didn’t see you there.’
She’s holding an enormous golfing umbrella that’s emblazoned with Benson & Hedges. Do they even sell those any more? A fat drip of rain from it lands on my hand and splats onto the top of my trolley.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says, ‘with that thing you’re wearing.’ She regards my hat as though it smells of rotten eggs. She shouldn’t pull that expression; someone should tell her it makes her look even older. ‘And you didn’t hear me either. I’ve been shouting you for the past ten minutes.’
Sandra’s a big fan of hyperbole. I don’t reply; she doesn’t notice.
‘How are we this afternoon?’ she says, her head tilted to the side. ‘I said to my Peter, I know I’ll see Maggie this afternoon ’cos it’s Monday. And every Monday she—’
‘Got to run, Sandra.’ I pull the brim of my hat over my eyes and start walking. ‘I’ve got an important appointment later.’
I need a new routine. If I bump into her again I might actually scream in the street – or jump in front of a moving car.
After a few minutes of walking, I’ve left Sandra behind. She’s probably going to tell her Peter that I’m a miserable old crone, but I don’t care.
The rain pauses.
I hear Sarah’s voice.
I look up to see if the face matches the sound. From behind she has the same brown hair in a bob on her shoulders. I can’t stop myself. I walk faster until it’s a light jog. My shopping trolley trips over the cracks in the pavement. I haven’t run for at least ten years and it shows. I slow to a walk before my knees give up, and I’m only a few feet away from her.
She laughs.
It’s Sarah’s laugh. I can’t help myself, again.
‘Sarah,’ I shout.
A passing bus splashes a puddle that misses me by inches.
I tap her right shoulder.
She stops in front of me. She turns round slowly and I know before I see her face that it’s not her at all.
Her eyes meet mine; they’re blue. Sarah’s were brown.
‘Sorry. Wrong person,’ I say, before she says it for me, like others have before her. She looks at me kindly, whoever she is, and smiles. No doubt she sees me as the ridiculous old lady that I am.
‘That’s okay.’
She turns back round and crosses the road. Probably to get out of the path of the crazy woman. I might actually be crazy, I don’t know. Of course that wasn’t Sarah. It could never be Sarah, and I should know that by now. Sometimes I think I could die from this loneliness, but I carry on. It’s torture. It’s too hard being the only one left. Being happy seems such a faraway memory. Why did everyone leave me?