I texted Marion. Just to be sure they were following old leads too.
The minutes waiting for a reply were agony. And when I got one it was unsatisfactory to say the least.
We checked it. It’s not relevant.
What did that mean? Annoyance building, I scrolled down to Henry’s name and dialled his number.
“You work me hard, darling,” Henry said immediately on answering. He sounded like he was smoking, his breaths irregular and punctuating his sentence in the wrong place.
“Sorry, I don’t want to interrupt.” I ran my hand through my hair, watching as rain began to fall even more heavily and splatter on my windscreen. I really wanted a cigarette, but I tucked my hand between my knees and that helped a bit. Smoking wasn’t my biggest vice, at least.
“Well, you’ve done it now,” Henry joked. “What’s up?”
“Can I ask you for a favour?”
“Another one?” Henry made out like he was thinking about it. “I guess I can manage that. Listen, if I come to Derbyshire this week for a holiday, you owe me dinner. Okay?”
“It’s about a different case,” I said, ignoring him. “Sort of off-topic. I want an outside perspective on it – but I also don’t want you to dig around too much. Just on what I tell you. It’s… sensitive.”
Something in my tone must have given me away, because I heard Henry make a sniffing sound. I knew he’d do as I asked. Whatever Henry’s flaws, generally he had a decent understanding of boundaries. Especially mine.
“So, what is it?” he prompted.
“Well, first off, can you see if you can trace a phone number for me?” I read him the number from the anonymous text message.
“Any reason?” Henry asked.
“No. No reason. And, something else, too. There’s a guy – I’m not sure if he has anything to do with Grace – but I can’t find any evidence of him after the late nineties. I don’t want to waste too much time on it if it’s not relevant, and I already asked Marion to look into it but she says they’ve ruled it out. But I know how you love a good mystery and I want to know for myself.”
“What information do you have?”
“Just his name,” I said. “But that’s all you’ll need.”
Henry sounded like he was reaching around for a pen, and then he went quiet.
“It’s Cordy Jones,” I said.
“Shit.”
Henry knew who he was, then. He’d probably googled him when I finally opened up about Olive. In fact, he probably knew more about the man than I did.
“Yeah. Like I said, I’m not sure it’s relevant, but given the media circus that exploded at the time I’m having trouble finding out any current information on him. Do you think you can work your magic for me?”
Henry didn’t even pause to think about it.
“Okay,” he said. “Give me twenty-four hours. There’s something else, too. Might be important. I found something on Grace’s stepdad.”
12
ROGER UPTON’S WHITE AUDI nosed into a small pub car park about fifteen miles outside of Bishop’s Green and I guided my own car to a stop just beyond. Had he driven all this way just for a drink? I waited until Roger went inside, and then I followed him. This was a bad idea but I couldn’t stop myself.
It was warm in the pub and my glasses steamed up after the cold night air. I scanned the room for Roger, alert for his stocky build, but I still jumped when he appeared directly to my left, two glasses in hand.
“I thought it was you.”
I spun around quickly, morphing the alarm on my face into what I hoped might look like steely resolve. We stood facing each other for a moment in silence. I didn’t know what to say. At least we were in public.
“Here,” he said, thrusting one of the glasses at me. I could smell the gin, and it made me cringe. Cheap vodka was one thing, a horrendous taste I’d slowly learned to deal with, but gin? Nope.
Taking the glass gingerly, I half-nodded my head. This wasn’t what I’d expected; I’d thought he might be angry, or suspicious, but instead he seemed thoughtful.
Roger gestured to the table nearest us. When I didn’t immediately take a seat he did it again, this time with more emphasis. I saw his eyes flash and suddenly became aware how big he was. His muscles bulged under his shirt and I felt like a child in comparison. So I sat down, grateful at least that I wouldn’t have to smell the gin if I put it on the table.
“I’m not sure—”
“You’re wrong about me—”
We had both spoken at once. I stopped myself so he could continue.
“Go on,” I said. “Why?”
“I saw you following me,” Roger said. “You wouldn’t follow me unless you thought I’d done something wrong.”
“If you didn’t do anything wrong, why have you driven all the way out here when there are plenty of pubs nearer your house?” I scowled at him. “That smacks of a guilty conscience to me. Aren’t you worried?”
“Of course I’m worried about Gracie,” he snapped. “But I don’t see why that means I’ve gotta have strangers breathing down my neck every minute of every day. You’re not the bloody police, are you? Why did you follow me?”
“Mr Up—”
“No, hang on. I just want to tell you that I’m not this bastard you think I am, all right? I know what everybody is saying. Oh, the stepdad did it. But I’m just as scared as anybody else. I’ve been out there with the others for hours and hours looking for her. But at the end of the day what good’s gonna be done by me sitting at home moping about? We’ll never get anywhere like that. We had this family liaison officer come round and he was all, ‘It’s important that you spend some time together as a family,’ but we haven’t got one any more. Without Gracie we’re just two people. That ain’t a family, is it?”
“You could be supporting each other,” I tried. “And yet you’re out here.”
“Of course I am!”
I glanced around furtively as Roger’s voice rose another notch, but nobody even looked our way. It was already too noisy in here. God, if ever a drink would take the edge off and stop me overthinking everything it would be right now. But I couldn’t risk relaxing too much, letting my guard down. This wasn’t just some interview, it was important.
“I’m not likely to go to the pub down the road after – after everything, am I? Any bloke in there could be – could be the one that’s got Gracie. And if he ain’t then at the very least they’re all bloody staring at me and it’s all, ‘Sorry your kid got snatched,’ or, ‘Don’t worry mate, they’ll catch the bastard.’ And what am I meant to say to that? ‘Oh, course they will, Joe. No that’s okay, Matt, I don’t feel too shitty about it, so you can all quit apologising and enjoy your pint.’ Either that or they think I hurt her.”
He was breathing hard, and I felt a knot of guilt form in my stomach. But I couldn’t stop now. Not after what Henry had told me.
“Did you hurt her?” I asked.
The words fell into the air like stones. I saw the curling of his lip, the narrowing of his nostrils, and I tried not to flinch. I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.
“D’you really think I hurt Gracie?” Roger said, each word punctuated with spit. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“What I’m saying is that I know about what happened – in 1992. When you were accused of having inappropriate relations with a minor—”
His face paled considerably, and I wondered if he might actually hit me.
“Does Adelaide know? Is that why she’s afraid to talk to the press? Because she’s worried she’ll let something slip?”
“Oh you have no right to bring that up.” Roger started to stand. “I talked to the police already and I don’t have to explain myself to you. You’re just a vulture. I did that interview to help Gracie. I want her home. Adelaide isn’t good at talking – she’s too nervous. It might have been different with you but I didn’t want to take the chance. She hasn’t got the strength to stand up there and have her p
icture taken, and somebody needed to do it. The world needs to know Gracie’s out there – I needed to know we were doing everything we could.”
“Does your family know about your past, Roger? Do the people in Bishop’s Green?”
Roger’s expression contorted again. He raised his hand and this time I flinched.
My reaction seemed to bring him back to the present. His face fell and he sank back into his chair.
The barmaid moved into view from behind the bar. Her gaze locked with mine in a silent, but obvious, Are you okay? I fought back my fear, wrestled it under control. And then I nodded. I’m fine. Fine.
“You don’t understand,” Roger repeated, quieter now. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Explain it to me then.”
I felt my phone buzz in my pocket, the second time since we’d sat down. I ignored it, thinking instead of what Henry had told me earlier: Roger Upton was accused of having sex with a teenager. I had to play this right. “How am I confused?”
He took a deep breath, and then looked me right in the eyes.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Like that excuses it?” I couldn’t help myself, the anger fizzing in my gut igniting like wick paper.
“No, let me finish. It was a long time ago. I was… I was twenty-five. She was – she was younger. I’m not into kids,” he said quickly, “but she looked – she seemed older. When I met her she told me she was nineteen. I believed her. But she was only fifteen. We dated a bit. Then when we broke up her mum found out and went ballistic, said I’d had sex with her and that it was basically rape.”
“And you went to trial?”
“No, because they couldn’t prove it – because it didn’t happen. Okay? We just went to the cinema and hung out. Obviously I hoped people wouldn’t find out because I didn’t want them to get stuck on me when they should be out there looking for Grace.”
“Then why do the interviews?” I pressed.
“I told you. Adelaide wouldn’t do it and somebody had to. Somebody has to make Gracie look human so they let her come home. Adelaide asked me to handle the press because she was worried she’d say the wrong thing; she was so guilty she couldn’t make herself do it. When you came to the house I thought that she didn’t want you there. But then…
“Look.” He sighed. “It was never about hiding this. I’ve already lived through people judging me once. I just want to keep Grace’s name out of it. I don’t want her to… To be ashamed of me.”
I felt hot, suddenly. I’d come here expecting a confrontation, or denial. Instead I felt dirty, guilty for dredging up something that had nothing to do with me. My face prickled. I pushed the glass of gin back and stood, suddenly convinced that I needed to leave. Had to. Before I made it any worse.
“Mr Upton, surely you expected this to come out. Your daughter is missing. I was just doing my job. Better that it was me than one of those other vultures. I haven’t written anything – and I won’t. But it may still come out.”
I set my mouth in a grim line, steadying myself for the inevitable eruption. But nothing happened. He stared at me for a moment, sadness and shame burning in his eyes. I didn’t wait for him to process what I was saying because he already knew. There was no fear. Those were the eyes of somebody with a lot of regrets.
And the way he cared more about Grace’s embarrassment than his own, I was no longer sure that hurting his stepdaughter was one of them.
* * *
I marched back to my car, confusion consuming me from the inside. I fumbled for my phone in the half-light, breath coming thick and fast as my frustration steamed up the car windows. The reception up here in the hills was patchy, sometimes nonexistent. The bars morphed from zero to three in seconds.
A text popped up. For a second I felt panic trill in my fingers, remembering the text I’d had before. back off. It was the same number.
Still, I swiped the message open, curiosity getting the better of me.
i told you to back off. let it lie. stop sniffing around
I was a different kind of agitated now. I should tell Marion, ask her to follow up, to trace the number like I’d asked Henry. It was probably just some hack taking the piss but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. But if I told Marion, I’d have to admit that I was afraid and I wasn’t ready for that.
I hardly had time to digest this thought when my phone buzzed again, this time in a frenzied vibrating ring.
“Cassie, thank God. I’ve been trying to call you.” It was Marion.
“Sorry, I was just – I was going to get in touch.” I stopped dead, dread curdling in my stomach. “Wait. What’s the matter?”
“It’s – your gran, Cass. Are you near your car? Can you meet me at the Babington Hospital?”
“Hospital? Marion, what the hell’s going on?”
“I just got a call,” Marion said. “Apparently your phone was going to voicemail and they tried you at home – and… Look, I think she’s okay but she got out and she was wandering down the street and somebody – somebody hit her, in the road… I can’t tell you any more because I don’t know. I think she’s okay. Cass, can you just meet me there?”
I dropped my phone. My whole body felt numb. All thoughts disappeared except Marion’s words and suddenly I was driving. I forced the car out onto the road without checking my mirrors and raced the miles to the hospital.
I pushed my foot down on the accelerator, my heart hammering so loud that I hardly heard the honked horn of a fellow motorist as I skidded at a junction. What on earth had Gran been doing? Where was she? Why would somebody have hit her? Could she have broken bones? Or worse…?
I reached the hospital in record time, my tyres screeching as I slammed to a stop outside the emergency entrance. I hadn’t even asked Marion where she would be, but thankfully I saw her car in the car park just outside, a blue light visible where she’d left it sitting on her seat.
I jogged through the entrance. And there was Marion, standing awkwardly by herself on one side of the waiting room, which was half full of people with sprained limbs and broken fingers.
“Marion!” I said breathlessly. “What’s happening? She wasn’t meant to be on her own. The carer...”
Marion pulled me into a hug, her whole body taut with unspoken words. She held me for a second, and I could smell the police station on her, a familiar smell that was offices and printer toner, coffee and cigarettes. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. The lump in my throat was too big, and I could hardly breathe. I pulled back, and looked right into her face.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
“She was in the street,” Marion said. “Somebody hit her with their car. Thankfully they weren’t going very fast. One of your neighbours found her and called an ambulance.”
I took a moment to collect myself, trying to force down the panic that was still rising. Had I got the days mixed up? Was it my fault she was alone? I tried not to panic. That’s what it meant, looking after Gran; I had to learn to control my emotions. Never mind the sick, shaking feeling that was threatening to engulf me. Never mind the text message on my phone.
The threat.
i told you to back off.
But I couldn’t think about that now. If I did… I would lose it. So I took another moment, and another, until I realised I was just staring into Marion’s face and I didn’t have anything to say.
“She’s okay, Cassie,” she said. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
But it was my fault. I needed to make it right.
13
GRAN’S INJURIES WERE FAIRLY minor. A broken arm from the way she fell against the kerb and some nasty bruises on her face where she’d landed. The hospital wanted to keep her in for a couple of days just to keep an eye on her. I wanted to stay but the nurse sent me home when it got late, assuring me they would call if there was any change.
Marion offered to make me a late dinner. By the time I pulled up outside her house I was exhau
sted, my head pounding and mouth dry. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there but the thought of going home to an empty house had made me agree. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Gran had been hurt because of me. She was out on the street because I hadn’t made sure she was safe. I thought of the text messages. Had they had anything to do with her accident? Was it deliberate? I’d deleted both texts after I’d read them but now I regretted it.
I should have shown them to Marion. She would know what to do. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about them, even now. What if she got hurt, too? What if, by telling her, I put her in danger? And a guilty part of me couldn’t bear the thought that she’d tell me to stop digging, too.
The guilt squirmed inside of me. It was my fault. The timing of Gran’s accident, of the last text message… It was too close to be anything else and I was left with the trembling certainty that somebody thought I knew something. Something I shouldn’t know. Or they were afraid that if I didn’t already, then I would soon.
Marion greeted me with a cup of tea. She pressed it into my hands and I sank into her sofa gratefully. For a blissful few seconds my mind felt emptied by my exhaustion, and I could think of nothing but the warm steam rising and the familiar childhood smell of sweet milky tea.
I thought of my dad. How when I was very little he would fetch me home from school and the house would always smell like warm tea. He forever had a brew on, the kettle going or the teapot beneath a cosy on the kitchen table. I remembered the way he’d smooth our hair back, pop our school jumpers on the backs of our chairs. Little things he stopped doing after a while.
He used to practically force-feed Olive and me shortbread biscuits during those afternoons when Mum was working and he was watching us. His own mother had spent many years living in Edinburgh before she passed away, and shortbread had been her favourite afternoon snack. It was something he never failed to tell us.
I cupped the tea Marion had made to my chest, soaking up the warmth of the mug. It was times like this I missed my dad. Missed what we had been before things started to fall apart. It hadn’t been good between him and Mum before Olive was taken, but it might have resolved itself… I shook the thought from my mind.
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