Repressed
The Missing Children Case Files
M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter

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London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © M. A. Hunter 2021

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

M. A. Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record 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: 9780008443382

Ebook Edition © May 2021 ISBN: 9780008443375

Version: 2021-04-23

Content notices: domestic violence, paedophilia, sexual assault, drug abuse, child abuse.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

Dedicated to all the scientists,

nurses, doctors, and volunteers

who are vaccinating us back to life.

I will not forget your sacrifices.

When foxes eat the last gold grape,

And the last white antelope is killed,

I shall stop fighting and escape

Into a little house I’ll build.

And you may grope for me in vain

In hollows under the mangrove root,

Or where, in apple-scented rain,

The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.

— Escape, Elinor Wylie

Chapter One
Then

Ruislip, London

The woman staring back at her from behind the glass looked feeble and exhausted. The skin around her eyes hung almost lifelessly, and the pores of her cheeks were swollen and in need of rejuvenation. But it wasn’t just the face that made Zara Edwards despondent; the flaps of skin leading from her neck down to where the bra struggled to restrain her chest at an acceptable height were also old and flaky. Where had this sad, old woman come from? It seemed like only yesterday that she’d still thought of that reflection as a frivolous twenty-something with the world at her feet.

A shadow crossed the dressing table, and a suited figure suddenly appeared behind her in the mirror. He pressed his warm hands on her shoulders and stooped to kiss the top of her head.

‘I’ve booked the Uber for fifteen minutes; is that okay?’

She patted his left hand with her right. ‘I’ll be ready.’

He stooped lower, one knee pushing into the pile of the carpet, so that his head was now in line with her shoulder. ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ he said reassuringly, pressing his lips to the top of her arm.

‘I’m not worried,’ she replied uncertainly.

‘Remember, it’s just dinner with a few chums from university. They’re all very friendly, and I haven’t seen most of them for years. We’ll have dinner and a few drinks, and then we’ll be back here. Remember what the counsellor said about us taking it slowly. It’s about one step at a time. We go from here to the Uber, then from the Uber to her house. And I’ll be with you the whole time.’

She stared at his reflected eyes, and it was almost enough to flood hers with tears. Her rock, for all these years.

‘Promise you won’t abandon me tonight?’

He kissed her arm again. ‘I promise, with the caveat that you let me use the bathroom alone.’ He smiled quickly to show he was only teasing. ‘If it all gets too much, you only have to say and I’ll make our excuses and we can leave. Okay?’

This was a big night for him, she knew, and that was why she’d spent the entire week psyching herself into the position where she’d at least made it to the dressing table to slap on her war paint. There was a time when her voice would have refused point-blank to even consider dinner at a friend’s house, especially when she’d never met the host.

She tilted her head so it pressed into the hand still on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry for being such a drag. I don’t know why you put up with me.’ She sighed gently.

‘I don’t put up with you,’ he reinforced. ‘I love you, Zara, and I understand you struggle with new places, especially when you’re unfamiliar with the people there. I understand it, and I’m happy to support you as you work towards finding resolution.’

He paused and looked away for the briefest of moments, but she spotted it, quickly returning her eyes to the makeup bag before her so he wouldn’t see that she’d seen. If he knew the real reason why she was dreading tonight’s dinner, he probably wouldn’t press for her to go with him. She’d thought about suggesting he go alone – he was sure to have more fun without her hanging on his arm – but she’d bailed on too many nights out before, and even though he hadn’t said as much, she sensed he was starting to grow frustrated by the routine.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ she said, moving her hand to his cheek where the long scar ran from his eye socket down to his chin.

When they’d first met, he’d been shy of his scar, keeping it partially obscured by high scarves and low hats, but she’d managed to show him that the scar wasn’t something to be ashamed of. His standing up to his abusive father was precisely what had saved his mother and younger sister. The pink line where the skin had healed over the bottle slash was evidence of his resilience in the face of adversity. It was her favourite part of his face, even if it was his least.

‘I’m the lucky one,’ he whispered, just loudly enough for her to hear.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go alone?’ The words were out before she had time to hold them in, and she instantly regretted them as disappointment filled his eyes.

‘That would be like Robin taking on Gotham’s underworld without Batman, or Penfold without Danger Mouse.’

She’d never picked him up on it, but he always framed her as the powerhouse in their relationship, even though they both knew he wore the trousers. They just wouldn’t work if she had any level of real responsibility; she needed him more than he needed her.

‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘some of my friends are beginning to think that you don’t exist. If I don’t drag you out sooner or later, they’re going to think I’m some kind of Norman Bates type character, secretly living out two lives.’

This made her smile, and she craned her neck to kiss him on the lips. ‘I’ll get dressed; why don’t you fix yourself a glass of wine while you wait for the taxi? You deserve it after the week you’ve had.’

He straightened. ‘Can I get you a glass too?’

‘Not just yet,’ she said, with a shake of the head. ‘I’d rather wait until we get there.’

She waited for him to leave before rummaging through the makeup bag, extracting lip gloss, foundation, and mascara, and systematically applying each until the woman staring back at her was virtually unrecognisable. She pulled her cheeks into a smile, and brushed her long, brittle auburn hair, until it resembled something less like a bird’s nest. Finally, she stood and moved across to the built-in wardrobe in the wall behind her, and slipped the navy dress from the wire hanger. She pushed her arms in, fiddling with the zip at the side until her tired and less-than-poised body was covered. Taking one final look in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, she sighed in remorseful satisfaction. It was the best she could do with what she had.

‘And when Professor Sweeten entered his office and saw that the engineers had reassembled that bloody MG inside, well I could have wet myself!’

Most of the rest of the guests sitting around the table laughed at Tom’s anecdote from their time at university together, as he reached for his glass and took a long swig of wine. He’d always been able to make Zara laugh, but he wasn’t the sort of man constantly looking to keep others entertained. She’d wondered whether he’d been a bit of a class clown at school, but according to his younger sister Mable, he had been very shy until university had helped coax him from his shell. In another life he probably could have pursued a career in comedy, such was his ability to find the humour in almost any situation, but then again, in another life she too could have been someone different.

‘You’re lucky none of you got arrested!’ Harriet cautioned. ‘How would that have looked on your applications to the bar? Criminal charges on a future barrister’s record would not do.’

Harriet was Will’s wife – they were hosting tonight’s dinner party – and whilst it had been pitched as a party of six, there were now twelve of them squashed in around the large dining table in the cramped room. For etiquette’s sake, the men had agreed to use the selection of emergency chairs that had been drafted in to ensure everyone had a place. As soon as Zara had seen the number of guests she’d desperately wanted to turn around and chase after the Uber, but she hadn’t mentioned her fear when Tom had checked if she was okay. He deserved better than to have his evening out ruined. He’d been working such long hours recently that it was important he have a break from chambers, and from their two-bedroom house.

Despite his earlier promise not to leave her side, he hadn’t challenged Harriet’s suggestion that the friends from university sit together, while their partners gathered at the opposite end of the table.

‘They’ll just be talking about times that none of us experienced,’ Harriet had said. ‘Far better to leave them to it.’

That meant Zara was now seated between a secondary school teacher and a literary agent, with whom she doubted she shared many interests. She’d spent most of the evening just watching Tom as he regaled those nearest to him with anecdote after anecdote.

‘So what do you do for a living, Zara?’ the literary agent asked now, dabbing her lips with a cotton napkin.

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘I work in an independent bookshop.’

‘Oh really? I’m in the publishing industry too. You’ve probably got some of my clients’ books in your store.’

‘We mainly sell specialist reference books, rather than fiction,’ Zara corrected. In truth it had been years since she’d worked in her godfather’s shop, but it was an easier lie than admitting she’d been made redundant from her role as a legal secretary before Christmas.

‘Ah, okay, fair enough. Do you enjoy working there?’

Zara reached for her glass of chilled wine. ‘We never get too busy, and most of the customers who come in usually know what they’re looking for; in fact, a lot of the time they come in to collect a book they’ve pre-ordered. I get on really well with the owner who trusts me to lock up at night, and yeah, I enjoy reading up on subjects I know nothing about.’

‘Sounds wonderful! Passion for reading is what attracted me to publishing too. I love finding a submission from a prospective client that just grabs me by the shirttails and drags me on their journey. It’s hard work sorting the wheat from the chaff, but so worth it when I see a manuscript I’ve sweated over reach the top of a chart.’

Zara sipped the wine, but it did nothing to cool her cheeks.

‘Do you and Tom have children?’

The inevitable question that always seemed to come up at such engagements, and another reason Zara dreaded attending them. ‘No we don’t,’ she replied evenly. ‘Neither Tom nor I want them, to be honest. Don’t get me wrong, we love spending time with Tom’s niece – his sister’s daughter – but I’m just not very maternal. You?’

‘I did, but my son died.’

Zara quickly covered her hand with her mouth. ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

‘It’s okay. It was a number of years ago. A shock at the time – no parent ever expects to bury their child – but I’ve come to terms with it now. That’s not to say I don’t miss him like crazy.’

Zara fixed her with a sincere look. ‘I am so sorry. If I’d known I wouldn’t have asked.’

The agent smiled back. ‘Don’t worry about it. Really, I’m fine.’

‘Maddie, Maddie,’ Harriet was calling from the foot of the table, ‘you’ll be able to help us settle this debate. Deborah was just saying that she’d read a statistic that claimed over a hundred thousand children are reported missing every year in the UK, but we don’t get to hear about even one per cent of them. One of your clients writes about missing children, doesn’t she?’

Zara felt her chest constrict as the breath caught in her throat, but she remained perfectly still.

‘That’s right. Emma Hunter is my number one client at the moment. I’ve heard that statistic too, but you have to bear in mind that a large proportion of those reported cases relate to children who’ve run away but who do eventually turn up. A prime example is that Jo-Jo Neville who was reported missing from Weymouth last month, but then turned up at her aunt’s house.’

‘Yes, and there was that other girl, wasn’t there…?’ Harriet continued. ‘Went missing from Brighton… ooh, must be thirty-odd years ago now… Do you remember who I mean?’

The hairs on Zara’s arms rose as her body temperature instantly dropped.

‘The press gave her that nickname,’ Harriet persisted. ‘What did they call her? Rock Girl? Yes, that was it: the Brighton Rock Girl, on account of the last photograph her parents had taken of her, sucking on a piece of pink rock on Brighton pier. Do you remember?’

Zara looked to her left for an exit to the bathroom, but the teacher’s chair was pulled out, blocking her escape.

‘Can’t say it rings any bells,’ Maddie replied.

Harriet’s eyes were now glued to her phone as she searched for the story that Zara knew inside and out.

‘Here we go,’ Harriet proudly announced, as the conversation at the other end of the table quietened. ‘She was nine years old, and the family were staying in Brighton for the weekend. They snapped the picture on the pier, and turned to watch the fireworks, and when they looked back she was gone. I remember my parents really freaked out about it, and my brother and I were essentially put on house arrest for months whilst the press kept running stories about the girl.’

Zara leaned towards the teacher and tried to ask her to tuck her chair in without drawing attention to herself. She could feel Tom’s eyes on her, but didn’t dare look up.

‘She was eventually found almost two years later. Some dirty pervert had kept her locked in a room in his house only a stone’s throw from the pier. I remember it was all over the press for weeks and weeks. The whole nation seemed to celebrate her return like she was some celebrity or something.’

‘Could I just get out? I need to use the bathroom,’ Zara whispered again, but the teacher’s attention was focused on the speaker.

Harriet turned her phone around so everyone could see the screen. ‘This was the image I was talking about.’

Zara didn’t need to look into the excited eyes of the girl with straggly orange hair, innocently sucking the end of the piece of mint-flavoured rock.

Harriet turned the phone back and continued reading. ‘The girl wasn’t able to tell the police much about what had happened to her, but they arrested and imprisoned the man whose house they found her in. Presumably he’s dead now, but just think what a traumatic experience that must have been for the poor girl. Can you imagine being torn from your parents and held prisoner for years? God knows what kind of twisted abuse she experienced. I mean, that kind of thing would totally screw up your psyche, wouldn’t it?’

Zara stood and leaned closer to the teacher. ‘Would you excuse me, please?’

‘According to this,’ Harriet continued, ‘she received counselling, but was never able to fully open up about what had happened. Psychologists concluded that she must have repressed the memories. Don’t blame her, really!’

She paused as she continued to read her screen, evidently enjoying being the centre of the party’s attention.

‘Oh, here we go, it says the girl – Zara Edwards – and her family ended up moving to Brighton to try and escape the intense media speculation surrounding…’ Her words trailed off and her eyes moved slowly up to where Zara continued to hover.

Zara would have given anything for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow her completely, but she remained utterly trapped as eleven pairs of eyes fell on her. With no other choice, she shoved the teacher’s chair out of the way and tore through to the bathroom, locking it behind her, before lifting the seat and expelling her starter.

Chapter Two
Now

Bournemouth, Dorset

I resist the urge to rub my eyes, conscious that I don’t want to smudge my eyeliner and leave myself looking like a panda, even though the skin beneath them is swollen and bag-like and probably already doing a good job of it. When the French lawyer said he was going to fetch his client, I didn’t think he’d take this long.

It’s after eight on a Saturday night, and I’ve been sitting in this boardroom for almost half an hour already. It’s an enormous room, but so cold in atmosphere. The long oval-shaped table is large enough to comfortably seat sixteen, based on the number of chairs I can count, and there is a large projector screen pulled down at the end to my left. Above my head a projection box hangs idly from the cream-coloured ceiling tiles. I am facing a wall of glass, though it is difficult to see any signs of life beyond the darkness of the evening March sky. In fact, given the strength of the lights in the room, all I can really see is a hovering ghostly reflection of myself at the table.

I check my watch again, even though it’s barely a minute since I last looked. I guess there’s a part of me that hopes Aurélie Lebrun and her solicitor can see how frustrated I am growing with the wait for them. It was they who requested I travel to these offices to meet with them, so the delay is maddening. It feels like I’ve been doing nothing but sitting and waiting for the last month. That’s how long it’s been since an anonymous stranger sent me an image of Arthur Turgood and Reverend Peter Saltzing sharing a joke with the Met Police’s former commissioner Sir Anthony Tomlinson. I know for a fact that Turgood and Saltzing were part of a trafficking ring exploiting children, but I have nothing to tie Tomlinson to it, save for this photograph.

My long-term associate and friend, PC Jack Serrovitz is actively looking for connections between the men, but he’s been so busy with it that he hasn’t been able to provide any kind of update. I’ve left messages for him, but I know we have to be so careful not to let on what we’re involved in that I don’t blame him for not replying. I know he will tell me as soon as he has something concrete. But then that leaves me twiddling my thumbs. I’ve tried undertaking my own online research, but there’s very little about Tomlinson in the public eye. He doesn’t have any social media presence as far as I can see, and there have been no new articles about him since he retired from his post more than a decade ago.

There’s also been no new photographs sent by my anonymous source. The image of Tomlinson and the others was one of three sent to my agent’s office on consecutive business days, and I’d half expected to receive further information, but nothing has been forthcoming. Jack arranged for the postal envelopes to be forensically examined, but no DNA samples were recovered, and all I’ve learned is that the first photograph was sent from Dover, the second from Reading, and the third from Chichester by someone called Kylie. There’s nothing else anybody can tell me, and there isn’t security camera footage at all of the possible post box locations to instigate a search of footage on the off-chance I spot a face from elsewhere in our investigation. I don’t recall meeting anybody called Kylie, and for all I know it was a false name given to the woman at the village post office who happened to have noted the name on the sender’s lanyard.

Jack has asked me not to release any information about the other two photographs I received, as they are part of the investigation he is undertaking while seconded to the National Crime Agency. For now, the identities of Faye McKenna and Cormack Fitzpatrick are off-limits to future books. I want to find some way of linking their disappearances with that of my sister, Anna, but any such connection eludes me for now. The trail has gone cold. I don’t know what the sender was expecting me to do with the images, but I feel like I’m facing a dead end, and I hate that I’m allowing myself to give up so easily, but I have exhausted all avenues.

What’s worse is that I haven’t heard from Freddie Mitchell since Freddie told me what he witnessed at the Pendark film studios. When I phone, it goes to voicemail, and whenever I head to the homeless shelter where he volunteers, it’s always as if I’ve just missed him. I can understand why he would want to avoid me, I just wish I could tell him how sorry I am for making him relive such a painful time in his life.

Hence my willingness to meet with Aurélie Lebrun so late on a Saturday evening. She was abducted and held prisoner for eighteen years before she escaped the clutches of her captor last year, and I have reason to believe the people who took and sold her are linked to the ring Turgood and Saltzing were involved with.

Since her escape, Aurélie has been recuperating in her native Paris, where her father continues to work in politics and her mother – a retired actress – has been tending to her daughter’s needs. I was commissioned by Aurélie’s father, Remy, to tell his daughter’s side of the story, and despite her reticence, I managed to garner enough detail to produce a manuscript that has been awaiting her final approval before my publishers will go to print. There is great excitement about the book, given the enormous amount of media attention Aurélie’s reappearance stirred up, and there is a film company waiting to exercise their rights to develop it for a streaming TV series. However, Aurélie and her legal team have been sitting on the manuscript for the best part of two months without confirming they’re happy to proceed.

A knock at the boardroom door behind me is followed by the arrival of Aurélie, flanked by a very tall balding man with hexagonal glasses, and the much shorter, and tubbier French lawyer who met me here. The suited and booted solicitors remind me of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito on the cover of Twins, albeit neither is smiling as they take their seats across the table from me. Their harsh stares suddenly make me feel underprepared for this encounter. Should I also have brought a solicitor with me? I was going to ask Maddie to attend, but she said she already had dinner plans she couldn’t get out of.

Aurélie looks healthier than when I saw her in her Poole Hospital bed last year. She’s still thin, but her face is fuller, and her torso less gaunt. Her hair has also grown, and clearly been highlighted and sculpted, and I can now see much more of her mother in the naturally beautiful cheekbones. If this was our first encounter, I’d never have believed she’d spent the best part of eighteen years trapped in a small cell beneath the ground, with only fleeting exposure to the sun. But then she pushes up her sleeves, and I see the telltale scars on her wrists where she tried to end her life a month or so after returning to Paris.

‘You’re looking well,’ I say to cut the growing tension in the room. ‘Did you fly over or—’

‘Eurostar,’ she says, cutting me off, no hint of a smile. She looks as keen to be in this room as I feel.

‘Thank you for meeting with us today,’ the taller of the two solicitors says, his pinstripe suit clashing with the diagonal purple and yellow stripes of his tie. ‘The purpose of the meeting is to challenge some of the claims made in your manuscript.’

My heart sinks, and I know instantly this meeting should have been with the legal team at my publishers rather than with me. When I wrote Ransomed, Lord Fitzhume’s solicitors tried to have certain lines and conclusions wiped from the manuscript prior to publication, but all of that was dealt with by a team of legal specialists.

I clear my throat, trying to hide the ball of anxiety inflating in the pit of my stomach. ‘With all due respect, if you have concerns about the manuscript, it’s my publishers you should be speaking with, rather than—’

‘My client would prefer to deal with the challenges on a one-on-one basis,’ he fires back without missing a beat.

‘If that’s the case, then why has she hired two legal professionals to host this meeting?’ I look directly at her. ‘Aurélie, we spoke many times on the telephone and when I came to visit you in Paris; all of this is not necessary. I shared multiple extracts of the manuscript with you as I was writing it, and you didn’t have too many objections then. I don’t understand what’s changed.’

She leans into the French solicitor and whispers something, before he confers with his taller colleague.

‘Mademoiselle Lebrun was not aware that your book would include references to her giving birth while held in captivity,’ he says.

I frown. ‘The DNA examination proved that the girl she snatched at the park was in fact the daughter she bore. I’m using it as a device to make your client more empathetic to readers.’

‘But it potentially jeopardises the anonymity of the child,’ he fires back.

‘How exactly?’ I say, struggling to keep my tone emotionless.

‘By even suggesting she exists, you open her up to intrusion from the press, and others who may try to identify her. My client does not want the child to ever know how she came into this world, and the best way to achieve that is to keep their paths separated.’

I should stand up and leave, telling them to contact my publishers instead. I resent being ambushed in this way, and if this had been their intention all along, I should have been warned to bring legal representation myself.

‘The last thing I want is to put Crystal in any kind of danger. I haven’t used her real name in the book for that very reason. It would take a dogged approach to check dates of birth and adoption agency papers to uncover her.’

‘Nevertheless, the possibility remains, and as such my client wants all references removed.’

I stare straight at Aurélie again. ‘Do you realise how complicit you will come across in the manuscript without that human side to your character?’

‘Please address your questions to me, Miss Hunter, rather than to my client. I have been instructed to speak on her behalf.’

‘It’s too late for me to change the manuscript at such short notice. The book is in my publishers’ hands now, and as far as I understand it’s waiting to run on the presses.’

‘Not without my client’s authority.’

‘She’s already agreed to the proposal.’ My voice is louder and more aggressive than I’d intended. ‘I have her agreement in writing, prior to it being sent to my publisher.’

‘My client rebukes that authority, as she hadn’t had the opportunity to fully digest and understand the contents of your proposal. Now that she has sought guidance on her legal rights in this matter, she has decided against the book in its current form. If you are prepared to make the required changes, then your publisher should be able to proceed with their desired release dates.’

I wish Maddie were here with me now. She doesn’t get intimidated by such corporate-speaking bullies. If I didn’t know she was enjoying dinner, I’d phone and ask for some advice.

‘You’re just going to have to take it up with my publisher then, I’m afraid,’ I say, opting for the least confrontation.

The two lawyers confer, before standing and exiting the room, saying they will return momentarily. Aurélie remains where she is, looking anywhere to avoid my gaze.

‘I know you blame yourself for what happened to Jemima Hooper when she stayed at the cabin with you that night, but you were under Jasper Derwent’s control, and had no means of escape, physically or emotionally. You can’t blame yourself for anything that happened after he took control.’

She doesn’t respond, but her eyes begin to shine.

‘I also know that a part of you is mourning Jasper’s passing, but your feelings of love for him aren’t real. I don’t doubt they feel real, but he manipulated you from the day you met at that auction room. He groomed you, and you were too young and vulnerable to stop him. You were at his mercy, and he took full advantage. You must see that, surely?’

She looks over to the projection screen, squeezing her lips together to keep them from trembling.

‘Please, Aurélie, I know there’s more you’re holding back from me. Some of your memories will have been repressed and buried because they’re too painful to face, but you won’t find happiness until you can put them behind you for good.’

I can hear the low rumble of the solicitor’s voices just outside the door, and know I don’t have long.

‘Do you remember I told you about my sister, Anna? You made me believe that you’d met her, but then you told me you hadn’t. I’m still looking for her, and your memories could hold the key to me learning more about the group that took her; the group who took you. Wouldn’t you like to see those men brought to justice? They stole eighteen years of your life, Aurélie. Help me find them for all the other children whose lives they’ve also decimated. Help me find them for all the children out there who are still being abused. Help me find them for all the children they’re going to snatch and hurt if we don’t stop them.’

‘No!’ she shouts, her head snapping round, and the tears escaping.

The boardroom door is flung open a moment later as the solicitors come in to find the cause of the shout.

‘Aurélie, I will change the book as much as you want if you just help me find the men responsible.’

The two lawyers converge around her and shepherd her from the room. ‘This meeting is over. If you persist in harassing my client, we will seek restraining measures. Tell your publisher to expect my call.’

Chapter Three
Now

Weymouth, Dorset

I’m disgruntled and exhausted as I make it onto the ward to which Mum was transferred four days ago following another fall at the hospital. According to the care home manager, Pam Ratchett, Mum was walking to her table at dinner when she keeled over. They feared the worst, and when the paramedics arrived on the scene, they confirmed she’d suffered a minor heart attack, and due to the unsteady arrhythmia, admitted her here for observation and monitoring.

Using the hand sanitiser, I rub my hands until they dry and proceed through the doors, receiving a judgemental pair of raised eyebrows from the male nurse behind the console of desks.

‘Visiting is almost over,’ he mumbles, looking over to the large clock on the wall, before returning to his book.

Does he think I don’t realise that? I know that the unnecessary delay with Aurélie, and the hour-long taxi journey back here from Bournemouth means I’m late for visiting hours, but at least I’m here. What right does he have to judge?

I force myself to take several deep breaths to compose myself and ease the tension in my shoulders, then proceed along the brightly lit corridor. There’s not as much chatter and noise as I’ve heard the last three nights, but then I’m usually here at the start of visiting hours rather than the tail end. The danger now of course is that Mum could already be asleep, but I’m determined to see her regardless.

Entering the room, Mum’s is one of eight beds, but half of them are empty. Curtains are pulled around another two, leaving one older man visible, but he has headphones on and is watching something on a tablet, offering the occasional chuckle to show he’s still alive.

Mum is sitting up in bed, but her eyes are closed and her head tilted to one side. I don’t know when she suddenly looked so old, and more like my grandma than my mum. Her hair has definitely whitened in the last couple of months, with now only the odd darker grey patch near her neck, and behind her ears. And the face that was once so bright is dull and faded, as if even her skin knows the end is near and has surrendered to inevitability.

The white patch of bandage above her left eyebrow bears a bloody stain where her wound has been weeping again. She caught the corner of the table on her way down, and there was blood everywhere according to Pam; I’m just glad I wasn’t there to witness it. I know I’d have gone into full-on panic mode.

Sliding over the visitor’s chair from beside the bed, I’m surprised to find a book of Elinor Wylie’s poems face down but open. I have the same copy at home, and there’s a part of me that dreams Anna left it here, even though I know it’s impossible. I lift it and turn it over in my hands, but when I open the cover I can see it’s on loan from the Weymouth library, so Mum must have brought it with her to the hospital. She so rarely wants to talk about Anna, but it warms me that my lost sister isn’t far from her thoughts either. I put my bag down on the floor and finally relax into the cold plastic chair.

Mum doesn’t stir, and it’s probably best if she sleeps through my visit. The heart monitor she’s wired to beeps and whirs in a gentle rhythm, and unless anything has changed today, she’s not suffered a repeat attack. When I spoke to the consultant on the phone earlier, he said they were still running tests to determine what may have caused the seizure, and I guess she’ll remain here until they have confidence that she won’t suffer a repeat.

When Pam phoned, I feared the worst. About a month ago, she had one of her good days where she knew exactly who I was, and was positive and chatty. We spent three hours together reliving happier memories from my childhood, many of which I’d forgotten about. I guess, once Anna disappeared, my view of the world around me dimmed, and most recollections focus on the pain etched across my parents’ faces, and the sense of loss. However, when we were catching up, a slew of happier memories emerged, and I think I’ve been too focused on the negatives to realise how often she put on a brave face for my sake.

Since that day, however, she hasn’t had any further good days. There have been plenty of bad ones, where she couldn’t recognise my face, has been abusive, or been incoherent. That one afternoon a month ago was a real blessing, but my fear is that it was the last time I’ll properly see my mum.

Wiping my eyes with a tissue, I start when I see Mum staring back at me. ‘Mum, hi,’ I say, brightening my tone and mood. ‘How are you feeling today?’

She doesn’t answer at first, and for a moment I’m not sure if she is actually awake, or whether her eyes have just opened during a cycle of sleep.

‘Mum? Are you okay?’ I say gently, leaning forwards and stroking her hand where the cannula protrudes.

‘Drink,’ she croaks back.

Reaching for the plastic jug of water, I fill the small beaker and place the straw between her lips, until she’s refreshed and spits the straw out. Returning the beaker to the side table, I retake my seat, still leaning forwards so that any conversation won’t disturb the other patients who may be sleeping.

‘How are you feeling today, Mum?’

Her eyes haven’t left my face, but the lack of recognition is painful.

‘Mum, I’m your daughter, Emma. Remember?’

She doesn’t budge, but her breathing has quickened and she quickly snatches her hand away from mine.

‘It’s okay, Mum. You’re perfectly safe. You’re at the Weymouth Community Hospital. You had a fall and banged your head. Do you remember? The doctors wanted to keep you in until you’re feeling more like yourself.’

I know she can hear me, but her expression doesn’t change, and it’s as if the words have been deflected by some invisible barrier.

‘Can I get you anything else? Are you in any pain?’

A tear suddenly rolls down her cheek, blotting the dry bag beneath. ‘Want to go home.’

‘You will go home soon, Mum. I know Pam is missing you, as are your other friends. As soon as you’re better, you’ll be back in your room with all your favourite things.’

Her voice when she speaks again is a low grumble, like a sulking child. ‘Who are you? Why are you keeping me here?’

‘I’m your daughter, Emma, Mum. And I’m not keeping you here, but the doctors are worried about your heart, and need to make it better. I know this must be frightening, but you’ve no reason to be scared.’

‘Want my mum.’

This throws me for a moment. ‘Mum, Grandma – I mean, your mum – died a long time ago. I’m so sorry.’ I take a breath and I’m willing her fragile memory to fire for just a few seconds so that I can put her at ease. ‘Do you know who you are?’

‘Of course I do,’ she snaps.

‘Good. Do you know who I am?’

She opens her mouth to speak, but then shakes her head.

‘I’m your daughter, Mum. Do you remember? You have two daughters, Emma and… Anna. Do you remember having two daughters?’

Again, there is the briefest glimpse of recognition, but it’s quickly buried by the furrows of her brow.

‘I want to go home.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum, but you can’t go home until the doctors know you’re better.’

She suddenly launches forwards, pulling the sheet from her legs and trying to slide out of bed. ‘You can’t keep me here.’

If she were more supple and agile, she might have managed it, but her legs don’t move as fast as her brain, and she’s suddenly tumbling. I just about manage to catch her and manoeuvre her back into the bed. She is weeping uncontrollably now, as she looks at her withered and wrinkled legs.

I press her head into my chest and just hold her, allowing the emotion to escape, and hoping my love radiates through her and brings her back from this abyss.

Her bony arms wrap around me, but a moment later they are clawing and pulling to get me off her.

‘Help!’ she cries out. ‘Help!’ Louder this time.

‘Mum, please, you’re going to wake everyone up.’

‘Help me! Someone help me!’

One of the nurses comes hurrying down the corridor, and looks from Mum to me, and then back again. ‘Is everything okay, Winnie?’

‘I want her gone,’ she demands, pointing a trembling finger towards me. ‘She’s keeping me against my will. I want her gone.’

The nurse takes Mum’s hand and rests her head back against the pillow. ‘I’ll take care of everything; you just rest, Winnie. Okay? Will you stay here while I talk to your daughter outside?’

Mum allows her to tuck the sheet back in, before the nurse nods for us to step into the corridor.

‘I-I’m sorry,’ I begin. ‘She woke when I arrived, and is a bit disorientated.’

She smiles empathetically. ‘That’s quite all right. We know about your mum’s dementia, and we’re treating her accordingly.’

My own eyes fill, but I’m determined not to cry in front of this kind stranger. ‘She couldn’t remember who I was, nor my sister… She seems to see me as the enemy.’

The nurse is nodding understandingly. ‘Unfortunately it’s more common than you’d like to think. She’s in unfamiliar surroundings, her body is reacting to the cardiac arrest, and she’s at a stage of Alzheimer’s where nothing is as it should be. Don’t take it to heart.’ She rubs my arm, and I’m close to breaking point. ‘I’m sure you’d rather stay and check she’s okay, but it might be for the best if you left us to it. Visiting hours are all but done anyway. I’ll get her settled again, and maybe tomorrow she’ll have a better day.’

I smile through the pain and nod, as the words stick in my throat. The nurse returns to the room and I see her talking to Mum, and the tears fall because I know that she’s in the best place for her right now. I have to be patient and hope that we’ll get one more ‘good’ day together.

Rick is waiting for me as I exit the hospital, and I crumple into his arms as I see the bouquet of flowers he’s holding. ‘I got you these,’ he whispers. ‘I figured it might not have been easy. Are you ready for me to take you home?’

My head nods against his firm chest and he puts his arm around me, leading me to his car. Once inside, he doesn’t speak, handing me a packet of tissues and just allowing me to get it out of my system. Tonight was supposed to be our third date, having been out for dinner a couple of times in the last month. We’re taking things slowly. Given he’s four years my junior, I know he’s not in any hurry to settle down; it’s been a while since I allowed anyone to get too close, and I’m not yet ready to allow him to fully enter my world.

When my tears have dried, I look across at him. He has such a firm chin when he’s concentrating as he is on the road now. He catches me looking and grins as he glances over.

‘Are you checking me out, Emma Hunter?’

I look away as heat rises to my cheeks.

‘That’s okay,’ he says, patting my knee. ‘You’re free to look. I’m sure it’s not every day you get driven home by a Community Support Officer as handsome as me. Feel free to take a long look. I’m not shy.’

I know he’s only teasing, but the embarrassment quickly subsides.

‘Thank you for coming to pick me up. It’s been one hell of a day.’

‘You’re very welcome. Things didn’t go well with your mum, I take it?’

I shake my head, but he doesn’t press for details. ‘I’m sorry. At least she’s in safe hands, right?’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Hey, listen, I know you said it was my choice what film we watched tonight, but I figured you probably wouldn’t want to watch an action flick so I brought a couple of comedies with me instead.’

I pretend to be offended. ‘Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a fast-paced action film with guns and bloody violence. Die Hard is still one of my favourite Christmas movies, after all.’

He chuckles. ‘Is that a fact? Damn, I wish I’d brought my Jean-Claude Van Damme collection with me now.’

‘What did you bring then?’

‘Okay, you can choose between Four Weddings and a Funeral, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, or The Hangover.’

‘Do you not own any films made this decade?’ I goad.

He laughs. ‘Hey, you said I should choose a film that would tell you something about me.’

I consider the statement for a moment. ‘So, you’re telling me you want to get married, you’re a bit of a skiver, and you like getting wasted with your best friends?’

He opens his mouth to challenge, before nodding. ‘Actually, that sums me up pretty well. Great deduction there. Maybe it’s you who should put in an application to join the police.’

‘Have you heard back from the last round of interviews yet?’

He shakes his head. ‘Should be any day now though. It’s amazing to think I first posted the application nearly nine months ago. I could have given birth in the amount of time it’s taken.’

I pull a face. ‘Only with a miracle of science.’

He laughs again. ‘You know what I mean.’

We arrive outside my flat and he stops the engine before unfastening his seat belt. My mobile rings as I open my door and, checking the display, I’m surprised and alarmed to see Jack’s name on the screen.

I have to remind myself that there is nothing more than friendship between Jack and me, and that I’m doing nothing wrong with Rick, yet the guilt remains.

‘Everything okay?’ Rick asks, coming around to my side and maybe noticing the pallor of my face.

‘It’s Jack… I should probably take it. Do you mind?’

He says no, but his face tells a different story.

Accepting the call, I unlock my front door and head through to the kitchen, flipping on the lights as I go. ‘Hi Jack, how are you?’

‘Hey, sorry to call so late. I wanted to give you an update on progress. Is now a good time?’

Rick appears in the doorway, but doesn’t enter. I lower the phone to my chest and move back towards him.

‘I’m really sorry, but it’s Jack with an update on the case, and—’

Rick puts an open palm out to cut me off. ‘It’s okay. I get it; it’s work. We can take a raincheck on tonight.’

I don’t want to disappoint him again, especially after he came and collected me. ‘No, it’s fine, I can phone Jack back in the morning.’

Rick takes my hand and presses it to his lips. ‘Don’t be silly. I honestly don’t mind. I know how long you’ve been waiting for news. I don’t mind, Em, I promise. Besides, if we postpone to another night, I’ll be able to go through all my action movies and pick out something we’ll both enjoy. Okay? Seriously, talk to Jack, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we’ll sort it out from there.’ He releases my hand, and heads back to his car.

Closing the door, I return the phone to my ear. ‘So Jack, what’s new?’

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