The Missing Children Case Files

Chapter Five

Now

Blackfriars, London

Sitting in the padded chair across the desk from Maddie’s latest stack of manuscripts, I can’t help but notice the subtle changes she’s introduced since my first book, Monsters Under the Bed, flew off the shelves. Back when we first met in this very room, the picture reproductions on the walls weren’t framed, there was no television or mini-fridge in the corner of the room, and the only luxurious chair was Maddie’s own well-worn bright-red faux-leather recliner. I remember her commenting that she preferred to read manuscripts at a forty-five degree angle – caught halfway between rest and the real world. Each to their own, I figured back then.

Choosing the right literary agent is a challenge for all new authors; if you’ve ever written and tried to publish a book, you’ll understand why I say this. I mean, writing a book is a marathon of a challenge, just in terms of putting the words down on paper, but to then give each sentence and paragraph the tender, loving attention they need until what you’ve produced resembles something nearing literature is far from easy. And then at that point, when you think your part is complete – you’ve actually written a book for goodness’ sake! – that’s when the real work begins, because although you believe passionately in the piece of writing you’ve poured your heart and soul into, convincing a very busy literary agent that it’s worth their time to read it is another matter.

I was lucky in that I was introduced to Maddie at a book launch of a friend of a friend. As soon as I explained that I was looking into historical abuse at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, with detailed witness accounts from three victims, she was salivating at the prospect. I should explain that Monsters is not a work of fiction, and whilst I am proud of the outcome it brought about for the victims – particularly Freddie – it was probably one of the most challenging projects I’ve taken on.

As an investigative journalist, you’re warned that fate can take you down some dark alleys in the search for the truth, but my interviews with Freddie, Mike and Steve were unrelenting; we got through more than one box of tissues along the way. But earlier this year, it all seemed worth it when the men responsible for the vicious abuse were tried and convicted at The Old Bailey. And in the next six months, the documentary about that hellhole will be available for all to stream (keep your own box of tissues to hand).

I can’t forget the sneer on Arthur Turgood’s face the moment Jack and I went to visit him in his cage three months ago. The gall of the man to see how desperately I needed answers, only to leave me in limbo.

My chest heaves; I’m not going to allow him to spoil my day again.

Maddie’s office now bears the tell-tall signs of Christmas approaching. In her defence, Maddie hasn’t gone over the top. The tree atop the mini-fridge is barely a metre high and is sparsely decorated with lights and baubles, and there are barely half a dozen festive cards standing on the locked cabinet against the far wall. Maddie once told me she doesn’t go into Christmas as much as when she was younger, but I’m the opposite; you can barely move for tinsel, garlands and twinkling lights in my one-bedroom studio flat in Weymouth.

Christmas when I was growing up was always a big occasion; or at least it was until… My chest tightens at the thought of the space on the mantelpiece where two advent calendars had once hung. After Anna’s disappearance, it had never felt right to make a big fuss at Christmas. And for a time after I left home, I maintained that status quo of barely even decorating a tree, but that all changed when I met Rachel at university. A city girl through and through, Rachel reminded me of how joyous December can be with a few decorations and festive songs. She also reminded me that Anna might return one day, and would hate to think that her disappearance had robbed us of our Christmas spirit.

The door behind me bursts open and Maddie comes jogging in, panting and flustered, her usual pristine and carefully made-up face red and blotchy, and her mop of chestnut curls sweat-streaked and clinging to her glistening forehead. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but professional business attire either, and this purple and silver tracksuit is reminiscent of the sort of thing that made shell suits so popular when I was a teenager.

‘You’re early,’ she puffs at me, surprised to find me in her small office with a takeaway cup of tea.

‘We said nine,’ I say, frowning, as I suddenly question whether I am the one in the wrong.

Maddie drops into her new black leather recliner, reaching down to the mini-fridge and withdrawing a chilled bottle of mineral water and drinking half the contents, before looking back to me. ‘Are you sure I said nine? I was certain we weren’t meeting until ten.’

I’m racking my memory now, certain the invitation in my online calendar said to meet at nine. ‘No, I think we were originally going to meet at ten, but then your assistant messaged me and said you had to move it earlier as you have another meeting at ten?’

Maddie snaps her fingers together and screws the lid back onto the bottle. ‘That’s right, that’s right, of course it is. Oh, I’m so sorry, Emma. Yes, now that you’ve said that it’s all coming flooding back. What am I like?’

Maddie is twenty years older than me, but I’ve never seen her in as big a flap as she is now; usually our roles are reversed with me becoming anxious and stressed about every possible scenario, while she is coolness personified. I don’t like being the collected one in this relationship and I’m grateful when she logs in to her laptop and refers back to the agenda for today’s meeting.

‘I have good news, and not such good news,’ she declares, locating a towel from a gym bag squashed down behind her desk and wiping her forehead clean.

Maddie has always been good at managing my expectations and she doesn’t hide the truth from me, but she also has a tendency to try and sugar-coat anything that might otherwise feel like a negative. I don’t think she does this just for me, but it comes as part and parcel of her role as literary agent and maternal figure to all of her clients. We writers really do have low opinions of ourselves, and it is easy for the tiniest molehill to be blown out of all proportion and enlarged into a menacing ash cloud.

I take a deep breath, determined not to overthink whatever bombshell she’s about to drop. ‘Okay,’ I say, unable to keep the caution from my voice. ‘What’s the good news?’

‘The publisher loves Ransomed! They actually think the way it’s been written is even better than Monsters Under the Bed. They love the dual timeline approach where we learn what was really happening with little Cassie Hilliard’s abduction, while in the later timeline we get to follow your investigation. Your editor Becky says it reads almost like a piece of gripping fiction, and is even more compelling because it’s based on a true story.’

‘It is a true story,’ I counter. ‘I didn’t make up what happened to Cassie Hilliard. It’s factual.’

Maddie is pulling a face, her nose wrinkling as she prepares to deliver the not-so-good news. ‘Yes, it is factual, but… their legal department is challenging some of the conclusions you’ve drawn at the end of the book. I know we discussed the ending before you wrote it, and I was the one who encouraged you to tell it as you saw it, but the lawyers aren’t so sure such conclusions can be drawn without evidence.’

‘He as much as admitted to me what he’d done,’ I respond, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. ‘He was the one behind it all, and if the lawyers want to see my written notes of that conversation, I’m happy to supply them. They’re date- and time-stamped. I jotted them down as soon as we’d finished speaking.’

Her nose wrinkles even more. ‘But they say it’s still your word against his. He denies any such conversation occurred and that you’re just trying to sensationalise your account of Cassie’s abduction to sell more books.’

I scoff at the affront. ‘Well, of course he’s going to say that; he doesn’t want the world to know what he did!’

Maddie raises her flat palms in a calming gesture. ‘I know he’s as guilty as you say, and that you would never dare lie for dramatic effect, but your notes of the conversation are not conclusive proof. I read the first and second drafts of the book, and anyone with half a brain who reads what you’ve written won’t be able to draw any alternative conclusion to the one you’ve presented. But…’

She leaves the ‘but’ hanging in the air and I can’t say I’m surprised that the publishers are getting nervous. Cassie Hilliard’s family have enough money to put the publishers out of business – or at the very least have them tearing through bureaucratic red tape for the next ten years.

‘So where does that leave us?’ I ask when I’ve composed myself and remembered that Maddie is merely the messenger.

‘They are continuing with the copyedit and you’ll have the proposed changes over to you sometime in late January and in the meantime, their legal department will continue to scrutinise the backstory and potential libel implications. The family haven’t brought any kind of civil action against them or you yet and they just want to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘Worst-case scenario?’

Maddie lets out a long and fatigued sigh. ‘Worst-case scenario, they ask you to reword the final chapter and leave it to the reader to determine guilt. It’s not the end of the world to leave the ending open, if you ask me. It will certainly leave your readers with questions, and that in itself will only generate further discussion.’

I’m not convinced, and hate the thought of leaving my readers without the whole picture. ‘And best-case scenario?’

‘They leave everything as it is and the world gets to see the truth about what really happened. Either way, you look set to have a second bestseller under your belt. Twitter is already hanging on every rumour about the book and its possible publication date. As soon as this wrangle is finished with the lawyers, they’ve promised to officially reveal the cover and put it up on pre-order.’ Maddie pauses and takes another slug from her bottle of mineral water. ‘The publishers have talked about an official launch party for the announcement. Now, I know you’re not keen on big public displays, but they really think it will help announce the book if you’re there to pose for pictures. As much as you hate the term celebrity, Monsters put you on the map, and now everyone is desperate to know what’s coming next.’

I cringe at the mention of a launch party where I’ll be the centre of attention. When did it become necessary for authors to have faces? I’d much prefer to just write and allow all the marketing and publicity to be handled by the experts.

‘You’re chewing the sleeve of your cardigan again,’ Maddie warns.

I yank my arm down, frustrated that I still have that nervous habit. ‘They’re not expecting me to speak at this event, are they?’

Maddie doesn’t have the chance to answer as the phone on the corner of her desk bursts into life. She grabs it on the second ring and adopts her regular telephone voice, but whatever she’s being told is clearly not good news as the blood drains instantly from her face. Do I assume this is news from the publisher’s legal team?

Maddie hangs up without saying another word, pushes back her chair and charges towards the closed door.

‘Maddie, what is it?’ I call after her. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s a woman on the roof,’ she replies absently, ‘and she’s threatening to jump.’

Chapter Six

Now

Blackfriars, London

The lift takes for ever to arrive and by the time it does, Maddie is white as a sheet. I really don’t think it’s a good idea for either of us to be going anywhere near the roof, but given Maddie’s history, I know there is no way I will be able to talk her out of forcibly getting herself involved. Maddie’s father died by suicide when she was at university and she’s always blamed herself for not seeing the signs. We’ve only ever had one conversation about it because she prefers to keep her personal life guarded, but I know she was the last person her dad phoned before he swallowed a handful of painkillers. She told me that, in hindsight, she’d known something was off by the way he ended the call, but she ignored that instinct and has regretted it every day since.

My father didn’t reach out to me before he was found hanging by the neck in HMP Portland. I try to think that’s because he didn’t want to inflict further pain on me, but I wish he had. I wish I could have told him that life without him in it will never be as bright.

I’ll be no use in this kind of high-intensity, stressful situation, but Maddie needs a friend more than ever and there’s nobody else I can call. How many times has she been there for me when my investigation into Anna’s disappearance has stalled, or when my impostor syndrome rears its ugly head and tells me I have no idea how to plot and structure a book? Despite my personal reservations, I will stick to Maddie like glue.

It’s a relief when the lift finally arrives on the tenth floor. One of the security guards from reception is standing guard at the door to the roof-access staircase, and he’s already told another pair that the scene is out of bounds. What is it with people wanting to gawp at a person threatening to throw themselves from a building? You see it in the movies when someone is teetering on the edge of a rooftop and the crowds gather beneath; if it were me, I’d turn and run. At best, an observer will see the person stand there for a time, until they’re talked out of the act; at worst, you’d have to watch as they plummet to the ground and then hear the sickening crunch of bone compacting with concrete before seeing the red puddle spread out from the point of impact.

No, thank you; not an image I want to witness. There’s enough evil in this world.

‘Roof’s out of bounds,’ the security guard says to us dismissively.

‘You don’t understand,’ Maddie counters. ‘I’m professionally trained for these situations; I’ve completed the ASIST training.’

He stares at her blankly.

‘It stands for Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training. And I help out on The Samaritans helpline so unless your colleague up there has dealt with a similar situation before, he’s going to need my help.’

It’s only now that I notice how ill the security guard looks. His name badge identifies him as Clyde, though I don’t recognise him, despite my umpteen visits to Maddie’s building. Her literary agency takes up a third of the sixth floor – with its view of The Shard – but the remainder of the building is taken up by a wide variety of other businesses. There are also metal detectors and luggage X-ray machines at the entrance so security is pretty high; if this woman has managed to get through all that and up to the roof, she must either work here or have been visiting someone who does.

Clyde now looks at me for some kind of corroboration. I have no idea whether what Maddie has just told him is true or not, though it isn’t in her nature to lie about something so serious, particularly when a woman’s life is at stake. I choose to nod and back my friend and mentor.

Clyde takes a further second to consider his options, before stepping aside and scanning his security pass at the panel, and opening the door for us. ‘Tell my colleague what you told me about The Samaritans stuff, yeah?’

Maddie is straight through the door without another word and whilst I admire her single-handed determination, I do wish we’d stayed put in her office below and waited for news. The stairs up to the next door are large and steep, and lead to a ladder which completes the final part of the journey. The hatch we then have to squeeze through isn’t exactly practical, but once on the other side we are immediately on the roof. The wind up here is both gusty and bitter. I close the hatch behind me and take in the immediate surroundings. The roof is largely flat with a number of vent openings, which must feed into the air-conditioning system that pumps through the building all year. It isn’t immediately apparent where the woman is – for the briefest moment I can’t help thinking we are too late – but then I catch the sound of voices carrying on the wind to our left. Maddie must hear it too as she turns and moves off in that direction without a second’s thought.

I hurry after the blur of purple and silver as her tracksuit top flaps in the wind. If I’d have thought about it, I would have suggested we both put on warm coats before making our way up here, but in our blind panic it never even crossed my mind.

Clyde’s colleague, who is also dressed in a black polo shirt and trousers, is a couple of metres ahead of us, stooping, arms outstretched in the direction of the woman dressed in brilliant white robes who is standing just short of the edge of the roof. She looks almost angelic.

‘Who are they?’ she calls out, pointing at us as we approach the security guard. ‘I said nobody else was to come up here.’

Keeping his eyes on the woman, the guard turns his head to address us from the side of his mouth. ‘This is no place for you. Go back downstairs.’

Maddie ignores the command and stands directly beside him, zipping up her tracksuit top as it continues to flap and float on the wind. ‘My name is Maddie Travers,’ she calls out to the woman, ‘and I work in this building on the sixth floor. What’s your name?’

‘She doesn’t want to give her name,’ the guard replies quietly, still talking through the side of his mouth.

‘That’s okay. You don’t need to tell me your name,’ Maddie calls out again. ‘I’m just here to listen to you.’

‘Leave me alone!’ the woman fires back.

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sweetheart,’ Maddie says, surprisingly calm given the pressure of the situation which I can only watch unfold.

It feels as though I’m not even here, as if I’m sitting alone somewhere watching it play out on a screen, knowing there is nothing I can do to influence proceedings. Maddie, on the other hand, seems intent on taking the bull by the horns.

‘Can you tell me what’s brought you up to this roof today?’

The woman glances back over her shoulder, her body trembling as she does, though it isn’t clear if it’s nerves or the chill in the air.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ Maddie calls, ‘you don’t have to answer my questions. Really, I just want to understand what could have happened to make you think that this is the only way out.’

She turns back to look at Maddie again and I suddenly realise both Maddie and the guard have moved half a step closer to the woman. ‘You wouldn’t understand!’

‘I think you’d be surprised,’ Maddie challenges. ‘My father felt the same way once – that everything was so bleak that there was nowhere else for him to go. But do you know what? He found a way out.’

It feels like we’ve reached a stalemate. If Maddie and the guard charged at the woman now, there’s no way they’d get to her before she had the chance to hurl herself backwards over the ledge, and yet I can’t say for certain that she definitely wants to jump. Having never been faced with a situation like this before, I can’t tell whether this is a serious attempt or just a cry for help. Regardless, I’m not sure Maddie is the right person to be trying to talk her down. They have trained professionals for this kind of thing in the police force, who must be on their way by now.

The woman is watching Maddie carefully, but then her gaze falls on me and she stares so intently that I desperately want to look away. It takes all my willpower to hold her gaze.

‘There’s no way out for me,’ she shouts, still staring at me. ‘I’m cursed.’

‘Tell me about that,’ Maddie encourages.

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me. I’m a well-educated woman with a vivid imagination. I think you’d be surprised at how much I can understand.’

The woman glances back over her shoulder again as the sound of approaching sirens fills the air. Oh my God, I think she may actually jump right now. She is so close that a trip or slip would send her headfirst over the ledge.

Relief floods my body as she turns back to face us again.

‘You’re not up here by choice, are you?’ Maddie tries again. ‘Who put this curse on you?’

The woman’s eyes are shining in the early morning sunlight. ‘We brought it on ourselves. We made a pact not to tell anyone what we did.’

‘Was that you and a particular person? A husband? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?’

The woman promptly sits down, her bottom on the ledge; it’s impossible to know whether this is a step forwards or backwards. Has she sat to engage, or so it’s easier to throw herself back?

‘A best friend?’ Maddie guesses next. ‘What did you and this person make a pact about? I’m assuming it’s something you consider bad if you’re not prepared to tell me?’

‘I can’t tell you because then you’ll be cursed too.’

‘Okay, okay, sweetheart, if you really don’t want to tell me, then that’s okay, but I won’t be able to help if I don’t know what help you need. Does your friend know how you feel?’