Where the Missing Go

by Emma Rowley

  “Your poor feet, Kate!” said Charlotte, shutting the door of her car in the drive; Dad was getting out the other side, moving stiffly after the journey. “These stones . . . and they trash your car if you’re not careful.”

  “They’re fine. I’m fine. I’m so glad you’re here.” They followed me in, talking about their drive—they’d made good time, coming early to avoid the rush hour. There isn’t really a rush hour out here, we all knew that, but I was touched that they’d come so quickly—and relieved.

  I didn’t want to scare them, but once in the kitchen I turned round. “There was an intruder in the night; someone broke in. No, really don’t panic”—as they started to ask questions—“I’m OK.”

  Dad called the police immediately, 999, as Charlotte got me to tell her everything; then we started looking through the house together, the three of us moving in a tight little group. Sophie’s room was what I was most worried about, but it was untouched. The rest of the house seemed fine too.

  “I don’t think anything’s gone,” I kept saying, braced for a nasty surprise—drawers wrenched open; wires spilling from a wall where a TV had been ripped away; clothes and belongings strewn across the floor. Then I realized—I was remembering my dream the other night, searching through my ransacked house. But there was nothing wrong now. Everything seemed to be in its place.

  I started to feel more and more uneasy.

  The two officers arrived, uniformed in a patrol car; the man I recognized from last time, when I saw someone in the garden: the younger guy, with a round open face. I made sure to take in their names, this time—stay in control. He’s Officer Kaur; his colleague, Officer Sweet, is compact and businesslike, her face carefully made up.

  It’s far too late, of course, for them to do anything, that much was soon obvious. I think that it must have happened about 2:30 a.m., I told them, but I didn’t even think to check my alarm clock until later, when I took a break from my spot by the window to go over to the green digits and commit it to memory: 3:21.

  It falls to Kaur to say it, as we’re all gathered in the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Harlow, how could someone have got in? There’s no sign of forced entry. You said it yourself, there are two locks on the front door, and you unlocked them both as you went out.”

  I’ve been thinking this myself. As they’ve been looking inside and outside, checking the doors and windows, I’ve quietly checked something too, while Dad and Charlotte were putting on the kettle.

  It’s best if I show them. “Come and look at this,” I say. “We can go out the back door.”

  We all file out through the utility room; the officers, then my family at the back. For a second it reminds me of something from my old life: a hostess guiding her guests out into the garden. What’s happened to me?

  Outside, I lead them around the side of the house and reach for the brick, hidden under a bush. Little things move, suddenly exposed to the bright light, wiggling back into the dark soil. The keys are still there: the Yale and the heavier one, for the deadlock.

  “I checked a bit earlier,” I explain now, “and saw them. I’d totally forgotten they were there. We used to leave them out for Sophie, my daughter, when she came home from school and I wasn’t in. And when she—when she left, well, I suppose no one ever moved them.” It’s so safe round here anyway. Who’d ever find them? Then, when it was just me, they’d never crossed my mind.

  There’s a cough from behind me. “And these are the back door keys?” says PC Kaur.

  “No, the front door.”

  Sweet now, her tone impressively neutral: “Mrs. Harlow, are you suggesting that someone used these keys, let themselves in round the front, and then put them back?”

  “I don’t think burglars behave like that, love,” says Dad.

  “I know they don’t,” I say, calmly. “But it’s the only thing I can think of. And you know, even if I did put the chain on at night—”

  “Kate!” Dad, of course.

  “. . . I know, I should, and maybe I did, I don’t remember; anyway, the chain’s so long, you can just reach a hand round and slip it off. I’ll show you if you like.” I look at the faces in front of me: the officers blank, professional; my family pinched with worry.

  I fill in the silence. “I mean, I will get a new one of course; I’d better change the locks too.”

  “That’d be a—good idea,” says Kaur. “Now, have you thought about where you’ll stay tonight, if you feel nervous again? Because there was the other night too, wasn’t there.” He’s being too nice.

  “Not yet. I mean, I’ve my family”—I gesture in their direction—“but what’s going to happen now?”

  A thought rises: do they know about the calls from the phone box? Would Nicholls have shared that information?

  “Well, we’ve looked around, all over now,” says the woman, Sweet, “there’s no signs of entry, nothing’s been taken, as you say. If that does change, of course, let us know.”

  “But aren’t you going to dust the keys for prints?” I turn to Kaur. “And after that person in my garden, when you came, the other night . . .”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, in this case, Mrs. Harlow,” says Kaur. “We’ll file a report, of course. So if you do find anything’s gone, you’ll have a crime reference number, and you can report that to your insurer.”

  Sweet starts talking again. It might be wise if I stayed with friends and family, perhaps tonight. Just for a night or two until I feel more . . . myself. Dad and Charlotte are chipping in now, and of course I can stay with them, maybe for a while; perhaps that would be best. I’ve stopped talking.

  The two officers don’t stick around long after that. I’m sure by now. They know. They know about the phone calls. I’ve shown up in a database, or someone’s mentioned it. Something.

  And they don’t believe me about last night.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sophie

  By the morning, I’d decided. It was time for me to say—no, tell him—that I was going to go away. It was time to leave. In the sunshine, the daylight coming through the skylight, I could squash down the terror of the night before. It’ll be OK, I told myself, I can sort this.

  But he didn’t come. Not that night, nor the one after. My food stores got low. The milk went sour, so I poured orange juice on my muesli instead, and tried not to panic. When he turned up, early the following evening, it must have been straight from work, in his suit.

  My heart actually leapt, I was so relieved to see someone. Then I remembered.

  I was sensible about it, making us both cups of tea as I ran through what I was going to say in my head. Then I set out, as calmly as I could, both of us sitting on the sofa, why I thought it was time I should leave. That it was always the plan that I’d just hide for a while, give us some time to get things together. That there were all sorts of places we could go, now that they’d thought I’d run away, for months. No one would be looking for the two of us.

  “Like we said, before,” I reminded him. We had, only—only I wondered what had we actually planned, how concrete was it? There hadn’t seemed to be any need to talk about dates, or timelines, or when we’d definitely go away, just after it had all blown over.... I couldn’t remember.

  He listened to me, his face blank.

  “No,” he said, his tone almost mild. “No, you’re not leaving.”

  “But why not?” I said. I made sure to keep my voice low. Reasonable. “I can look after myself, you can come and visit, wherever I am. A new start, like we talked about.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not realistic, to move you and get you set up somewhere. Where, anyway? You’d only have to hide away there, too. Someone might recognize you, otherwise.” He shook his head. “It’s not an option.”

  “But you don’t understand.” I didn’t mean to say it, but the truth spilled out. “I can’t stand it in here anymore! I can’t!”

  His face hardened. “Sophie. This is what we agreed. It’
s what you wanted.”

  “But not like this. This was just until we got sorted, to give us some time. And I’m sixteen now, that’s important, isn’t it, even if they are still looking for me?” My voice rose. “I can’t stay here forever!”

  “It doesn’t change anything.” He looked at me, cold-eyed. “You were underage. In a court of law there’s no doubt about it. I’m more than twenty years older than you. It’d be prison, the end of my career. And I can’t go to prison.”

  I was shocked. He made it sound so horrible. He’d never spoken about us like this before.

  “But there’s no need—I’d make them understand . . . we were in love. We are.”

  I have a flash of inspiration. “I can go away, even if you can’t yet. Like they thought I did.”

  “With no job? Or something cash in hand so you don’t have to say who you are? You wouldn’t like that, not in the long run. And then what would you do? No,” he says, almost regretfully, “you’d crack eventually, go back to mummy and daddy. I’ve thought of this already. There’s no alternative.”

  “But you could help me . . . you could give me some money. . . .”

  The threat, when it came, was uttered so matter-of-factly, it took a moment to sink in. “I told you I couldn’t live without you, Sophie. I’m not letting you go.”

  It felt unreal. So this is us, for the first time, no pretending.

  “But I want to go,” I said, pleading. “You can’t keep me here forever. Please. You can’t . . .” Anger swelled up in me, the weeks and months of not saying how I felt, just pushing it down. “It’s not just up to you.” I summoned my courage. “And I want to leave. Now. Give me the keys.” I stood.

  He looked at me from the couch, implacable. “Stop it, Sophie. I mean it.”

  “Give me the keys.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t.” In the corner of my eye, I could see his jacket: hung on the back of the chair. Near the door.

  I know it was stupid, but I still didn’t realize. I rushed for them, felt for the tell-tale weight, then wrestled them out of the pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him get up, walk round, like he wasn’t even in a rush. He intercepted me before I’d even got them in the door. For a second we struggled, then he twisted them out of my hand.

  “No,” I screamed. “Let me go!”

  Suddenly I froze, stunned.

  And then his full weight was on me, the breath knocked out of my body, my back against the floor. He slapped me, once, round the face. Not a punch.

  It wasn’t even that hard, really. I suppose it was the shock, more than anything.

  “It’s all about you, isn’t it. And what you want,” he said. His voice sounded different, his accent slipping a little, somehow. “You little bitch.”

  I touched my tongue to my lip, tasted metal. I couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

  “I’m going to leave now, Sophie, until you’ve calmed down.” His voice sounded back to normal again, smooth and ironed out like a TV presenter’s. “And when I’m back, you’d better behave.”

  He got up, leaving me on the floor. “Things are going to change around here. I don’t want any more of your whining, or complaining. I’ve had enough. Do you understand me?”

  I wouldn’t look at him.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” I said, in a whisper.

  I was quiet as he left, waiting to hear the bolts slide into place.

  Slowly, I got up. I touched the side of my face.

  Then I pressed my ear to the door, listening for his tread down the stairs to the next one.

  My legs were shaking.

  I’m not hurt, not really. I shouldn’t have pushed him.

  But I knew. I knew this was different, a boundary breached. Even more than the other night, when he’d had his hands round my neck, his eyes unseeing.

  This? This time he knew exactly what he was doing.

  I waited a minute or two, till I thought he’d have gone. Something told me that he wouldn’t be back, for a while. Then I rushed to the window, pulling the chair underneath it, piling up the magazines so I could reach.

  I’ll admit then, that was the moment. That I finally screamed. Almost just to see. If anyone would hear me, come and help. My throat still hurt from the night before. Still I felt silly, at first. Theatrical, like I was watching myself in a play. This couldn’t be me, in this situation.

  But that didn’t last long.

  And then I screamed, and screamed, and hammered on the window, my fists striking up against the glass. It didn’t shatter, not a bit. Eventually I stopped, when my throat was sore and hurting.

  I listened. I couldn’t hear anything outside, not a murmur of a car engine or anything like that. Not even the birds through the thick glass.

  And nobody came. Not then. Not later, when I tried again. So I climbed down. I picked up Teddy and cuddled him close. I know it might sound silly, but that always makes me feel better. It’s almost like I’ve got a little friend in here. “It’s OK,” I told him, although of course I was really telling myself. “It’s OK. He’ll come around. It’ll be fine. I’ll work this out.” But underneath it all, one thought kept repeating, running through my mind like a drum beat that I couldn’t ignore.

  I’ve made a very big mistake.

  CHAPTER 34

  Kate

  “Would anyone like another cup of tea?” Dad makes himself busy again, after the officers have gone. He always does this when he’s uncomfortable.

  Charlotte shakes her head, folding her arms. “What else is going on, Kate? Why did you want us to come and see you, before all . . . before all this?”

  She’s like Mum, she doesn’t go for the softly-softly approach. I don’t feel ready to do this, not now.

  “Look. I couldn’t say this, not in front of them,” I start. “And I know I’ve been a bit—off the radar. But I don’t think this was just a burglary. There was someone in my garden the other night, too. And there’s something else going on. I’ve found Sophie’s emails—someone knew she was running away, was planning to go with her, I think.”

  There’s a puzzled beat. “Well, who?” says Charlotte.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know yet, but I’m trying to find out. But that’s not the only thing either. Wait, let me explain properly. From the beginning.”

  And then I tell them: everything flooding out, like a dam’s broken in me. I start with what they already know: the phone call from Sophie; how I think she sounded scared, that she didn’t finish the call like she normally did; then I explain what Holly said about the pregnancy test, that it was really Sophie’s; Danny denying anything had happened, and his comment about Sophie’s dad picking her up.

  “And you know Mark never did pick-ups, so now I’m thinking: who could that have been?”

  “Uh-huh,” says Charlotte, frowning in concentration.

  Now I tell them the rest of it: the police finding Sophie’s diary; the things inside it seeming to confirm that Sophie was pregnant, “and then,” I say—I can’t look at Dad—“she got it sorted,” though Danny her boyfriend, wasn’t happy. How it had me thinking we were really getting somewhere, that I was finding out why Sophie had left, painful as it was.

  They’re both quiet, listening to me.

  “But then something really big happened: that’s when I got into her emails—an account we didn’t even know about, that she’d mentioned in her diary. And in it, there are these messages where she’s talking to someone about running away.

  “And then Nicholls—this policeman—I haven’t told you about him.” I explain how he said someone’s making calls to the charity from the phone box near my house, how unhelpful I’m finding him. “He was at Sophie’s school, years ago, and he didn’t breathe a word to me. And I saw him at Nancy’s house—”

  “Wait, wait, who’s Nancy?” says Charlotte, frowning.

  “Right, I haven’t even got to
that; she used to live at Parklands, that big house over there”—I gesture to the garden—“and she ran away, oh, more than twenty years ago now, but she looks just like Sophie. And their runaway notes, they’re so similar, I mean they’re not identical, but there’s a phrase that I found in both of them. Just let me go and get Sophie’s. I’ll show you, then you’ll see. . . .” I’m heading off into the hall, and stop, turning round. “Aren’t you coming? They’re in the living room, it will make much more sense.”

  They’re not moving.

  “I’m sorry, I’m going too fast.” Their faces are comically similar, eyes worried, mouths down-turned.

  “It’s OK,” I say, more softly. I don’t mean to shock them. “I’m really worried too, of course, it’s a lot to take on—that finally, things are happening. But I really feel I could be getting somewhere.” I’ve got to convince them. “She’s out there, you know, and she’s reaching out to me, to us, regardless of what she said about stopping contact. And I just feel once we’ve got some momentum, put more pressure on the police—oh, not the two who were just here. And definitely not Nicholls.”

  A thought occurs to me now. “You know, where’s that number the police gave me. Because I did notice something was missing the other day. Sophie’s old blanket, you know, her blankie she called it, and I thought, who would want that old thing, other than . . . And her Teddy’s gone, too, isn’t it? But if it’s all tied together. . .” I stop stone-cold, my eyes fixed on nothing. “But that was before. My God, does that mean he has been here before. . . .”

  “Kate, stop.” Charlotte actually puts out her hands, both palms up. “We need to talk to you. About all this.” She’s right, I need to let them digest this, but—“You’re completely manic, can you hear yourself?”

  “What? No, I’m not, I just need to make you understand.” The fear starts to rise in me again; if I can’t reach them, Sophie’s slipping away....

  “But, Kate, love,” says Dad. “Please just think. Start at the beginning. If she’s really scared, if she’s in trouble—why ring the helpline? Why not just ring the police?”