My Little Girl

by Shalini Boland

  ‘I wasn’t sure how to bring this up, or even whether I should mention it.’

  ‘Mention what?’ My pulse speeds up at the increasingly worried expression on her face. What is it that she wants to tell me? What now?

  Seventeen

  CLAIRE

  ‘I can’t believe we’re into day three and there’s still no news.’ Oliver pushes the tuna salad around his bowl with his fork before giving up any pretence of eating and sliding the bowl away.

  We’re having an early lunch, but I’m not hungry either, even though the hollow feeling in my stomach says otherwise. I chew my salad, but I may as well be eating cardboard for all the enjoyment I’m getting out of it. I’m too exhausted, upset and hot to eat. The back door is open, but there’s not even the hint of a breeze coming through. Despite the light flooding in through the windows, the kitchen feels claustrophobic, stifling.

  After yesterday’s argument, Oliver came home for dinner and we barely spoke, aside from an apology from me. Despite the huge turnout, Jill’s search party didn’t turn up anything worthwhile. The only thing it did was show what a tight-knit community we live in. That there are people out there who genuinely care.

  Oliver and I spent this morning searching the streets once again. And once again we turned up nothing. It’s like our daughter has disappeared off the face of the earth.

  ‘Have you checked the Facebook page recently?’ Oliver’s face is grey and drawn and there are purple smudges beneath his eyes. Neither of us slept well last night.

  ‘I’ve been checking it constantly. Everyone’s lovely, but no one’s seen a thing. Did you speak to the police again?’

  ‘Yeah. Nothing.’

  We sit quietly for a few moments with nothing but the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock. The thought of going back onto the streets to search fills me with dread. Earlier, I was raring to go, convinced we’d find our daughter, but it’s feeling more and more like a useless exercise, like we’re killing time until the police can give us an answer. I made the mistake of googling ‘missing children’. The statistics aren’t good. Most children are found within forty-eight hours. After that, the chances of finding them safe and well decline drastically. We’re fast approaching that deadline. We have to find her today.

  Please let her be okay. Please don’t let her be hurt or scared. Wherever she is, I need her not to be frightened. She’s always been a fearless child, but she’s never had to face anything truly awful. I couldn’t bear it if she was traumatised by whatever’s happening to her right now.

  The doorbell shakes us from our thoughts. We stare at one another for a second before both getting up. I shouldn’t allow myself to hope that this is some kind of good news because I can’t face the disappointment, but that doesn’t stop my speeding heart and lurching stomach as I follow Ollie to the front door.

  ‘Flower delivery for Claire and Oliver Nolan.’ The woman at the door is red-cheeked and flustered as she hands my husband a bouquet of yellow and white roses. He thanks her quietly.

  I turn away and plod back into the kitchen. Seconds later, the front door closes and Ollie follows me, bouquet in hand.

  ‘Who are they from?’ I ask, even though I couldn’t care less.

  He lays the flowers on the table between our salad bowls and inspects the small white card. ‘Says it’s from Paul, Tanya and Millie.’

  ‘The Jensens?’

  ‘Yeah. It says they’re sorry things got so heated and they’re thinking about us. To let them know if they can help in any way.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Definitely Tanya’s work. I doubt Paul had anything to do with the flowers or the apology.

  We stare down at the bouquet. I should probably sort out a vase and some water, but the task seems beyond me at the moment. Oliver does the honours and I force myself not to say anything when he forgets to cut the stalks. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

  ‘I guess we should get back out there.’ I start clearing away the lunch things.

  ‘Definitely.’ Oliver scratches his chin. ‘Would you mind if I nipped to the shop first?’

  I give him a look.

  ‘I know. It’s the last thing I want to do, but I have to finish my tax forms for the accountant. We’ll get fined otherwise.’

  ‘I suppose so, but surely they won’t fine you if they know the circumstances.’

  ‘I don’t want to take the risk. If I just get it done, it’ll be one less thing to think about.’

  ‘Okay. Want me to come with you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I shouldn’t be long. Stay here and rest for a bit. We were out for hours this morning. You look tired, Claire.’ He leans in and moves a strand of hair from my eyes. His fingers brush my cheek and I suddenly feel bad that the two of us are so out of tune right now. We should be supporting one another instead of bickering.

  I dredge up a tired smile. ‘Thanks, but I’m too antsy to rest.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I’ll be back soon, okay?’ He rubs the top of my arm, a soothing gesture. I put my hand over his and we stay like that for a moment.

  Oliver leaves and I’m back on my own again, the house mocking me with its silence. I decide that I’d rather be out looking for Bea than worrying at home alone. I make myself a coffee and take it with me into the office. I’ll check my Facebook page before heading out. It’s easier to check it on the laptop than on my phone.

  Scrolling through the latest comments, I see that all kinds of friends and acquaintances are leaving messages of support and sympathy – some of whom I haven’t seen or heard from in years – but no one has any news of Beatrice. I recognise names from school, college, old work places, friends of friends, ex-boyfriends, people I fell out with – they’re all here on this page. And they’re even having little sub-conversations; old friends catching up while my world is in freefall.

  I notice that I also have several private messages. I click on the message icon and open up the first one, which is from an old school friend who’s letting me know she was part of yesterday’s search party and if there’s anything else I need I should let her know. The next two messages are along similar lines. The last message is from a name I don’t recognise – Faye Kerr. Could it be someone from my past who’s changed their surname after getting married? But I don’t know anyone, past or present, called Faye. A client? I don’t think so. And then it hits me. I shake my head and curl my lip. I’m so stupid not to have twigged straight away. Faye Kerr = Faker. So it’s a fake name. Probably spam. I open it anyway, steeling myself in case it’s a dick pic or something equally gross.

  It’s a short message:

  You deserve it.

  I feel a spark of static as the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Is this spam, or maybe some kind of advert? No. It feels more sinister. Threatening. I really hope this isn’t to do with Beatrice going missing. Like they’re saying that I deserve this to happen to me. That’s just horrible. Sick. I click on their profile, but it was only made last week and they have no photos, no friends and no ‘about’ info. Their profile picture is a vase of red roses on a mantelpiece in front of a mirror. Wait a minute… a mirror. Beatrice went missing in the hall of mirrors. This is too specific to be a coincidence. With trembling fingers I pick up my phone and call Gayle.

  She answers after one ring. ‘Hello, Claire, is that you?’ It sounds like she’s in a car.

  ‘Hi, Gayle, can you talk?’

  ‘I’m just on my way to you now.’

  ‘Good timing. How far away are you?’

  ‘Literally just turning into your road.’

  I blow out a breath. ‘Okay, see you in a sec.’ I take a gulp of my almost-cold coffee, head to the front door and stand out on the porch, watching for her arrival. Within seconds, her silver Polo flashes into view and pulls into the driveway. She gives a quick wave through the windscreen before exiting the car and hurrying up the steps towards me.

  ‘Something happen? You okay?’

  ‘It�
��s best if I show you.’

  Gayle nods and follows me into the office where I sit and show her the awful message. ‘Have you taken any screenshots?’ She’s looking over my shoulder at the offending message.

  ‘No. Good idea.’ I screenshot the message as well as the person’s profile page. ‘Did you notice their profile picture is a mirror? Do you think they might have done that on purpose because of where Beatrice went missing – the hall of mirrors?’

  ‘Maybe. It’s possible.’ She shakes her head in disgust. ‘Although it’s not nice, I’d try not to worry. It’s probably just an internet troll. Unfortunately, there are people who get off on this sort of thing. Some sad person hiding behind their keyboard trying to make other people’s lives a misery.’

  ‘Can you find out who’s behind it?’

  ‘We’ll do our best.’ She takes a few photos on her phone of the account and the message. ‘Don’t hold out too much hope though. It’ll probably be a fake account with a temporary email address. Like I said, try not to worry about it. We’re better off spending our time looking for Beatrice.’

  ‘What if this person’s behind it? What if they took her?’

  ‘Claire…’

  I look up at Gayle. She’s fixing me with a kind but firm stare. ‘What?’

  ‘Whoever’s behind that message is hoping to cause this exact reaction. To make you feel even more scared and upset. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Honestly, they’re not worth spending a second more of your time on. We’ll look into it, I promise. In the meantime, put them out of your head and try not to worry about them.’

  ‘It’s hard not to.’ I know what Gayle’s saying is true, but it’s almost impossible to disentangle my emotions. ‘It’s such a personal attack. Another horrible shock, you know. On top of everything else, some bastard has to do this. I wish I’d never set up the page. Nothing helpful’s come of it anyway. It’s been a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Why don’t you change your settings so that no one can send you private messages. That should deter these types of trolls. If they’re that persistent, they’ll have to post their bile in front of everyone else and show the world how awful they are. Pretty sure they won’t be up for that.’

  ‘Good idea.’ I do as she suggests and click onto my message settings. ‘So no news from your end?’

  ‘Not yet. The DI is working on a few things which is why I’m here. Is Oliver in?’

  ‘No. He’s had to go into work for a bit to sort out some forms and arrange cover while he’s off. Can you tell me what these things are? I’ll let him know when he gets back.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I finish updating my Facebook message settings and close my laptop.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit?’ She points to the chairs on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She sits opposite me and I wait for her to tell me what they’re planning. ‘So we’re going to be working with the National Crime Agency – NCA for short – to implement what’s known as a Child Rescue Alert – CRA for short.’

  ‘Child Rescue Alert? That sounds quite drastic. What is it exactly?’ I feel as though I’m speaking from a long way away. Like I’m not even here. All these words and acronyms sound so official, like something out of a TV crime drama. Why are they now part of my real life?

  ‘It’s based on the US Amber Alert system, where we work with the media to get the public’s help. Similar to what you’ve done with your Facebook page, but on a wider scale. We’ll probably ask you to disable your own page at some stage so we can coordinate things from our end, but I’ll let you know if that needs to happen.’

  My mouth goes dry. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. Does this mean Beatrice will be all over the news and social media?’

  ‘Possibly. Our absolute priority is to find your daughter. Of course, we’ll always give consideration to the impact such a high-profile media alert might have on Beatrice’s future.’

  I try to absorb what she’s telling me. Oliver and I are going to be like those couples you see on the news sometimes with their hollow-eyed stares and barely reined-in terror. The ones who have to stand there united giving a statement to the media amid camera flashes and shouted questions from the press. I feel ill at the thought.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to take in, Claire, but I’ll be here with you both every step of the way, okay? You can speak to me about anything and ask any questions.’

  I nod, my brain going blank, my body numb.

  Gayle shifts in her seat. ‘There’s one other thing I have to tell you that you may or may not already know about.’

  I wait for her to continue, still reeling from everything else and unsure if I can absorb yet more news.

  ‘It appears that your mother-in-law gave an interview to the Argus.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Oliver told me about that. They accosted her yesterday while she was organising her search party.’

  ‘Ah, okay. Well, the piece came out today and it’s fair to say it’s probably not what she had in mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I don’t understand how Jill has managed to cause so much chaos in such a short space of time.

  ‘It’s fine. The piece shouldn’t interfere with our own media plan too much, but I doubt it will help either. From now on, we’ll need you guys to run any media involvement through us first. We’ll have a word with Jill and tell her the same thing.’

  ‘Have you got a copy of the article?’

  ‘No, but it’s online. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother reading it.’

  ‘It’s that bad?’

  ‘Not really. Just not worth reading. That’s my advice.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks. I’m not sure I’ve got the mental energy to look at it right now anyway.’ Not if it’s as awful as I think it might be.

  I slump down in my seat. This is all such a nightmare. Where is my daughter? Where is she? I miss her so much it feels as though someone has ripped out half of my soul. What if she’s scared? Hurt? Beatrice is such a good girl. Such a bright, happy child. I wish I’d been a better mum. Less strict. More fun. More like Jill, I suppose. But then if it weren’t for Jill, Beatrice would be here now…

  Eighteen

  JILL

  I shift in my seat, the leather pad creaking beneath me. Why is Laurel looking so nervous? What does she want to tell me? She reaches down by her side for something and I see that it’s a folded newspaper. ‘Is that… is that the Argus?’

  ‘Mm.’ She nods, placing the newspaper on the table.

  If she’s reticent about showing it to me, that must mean… ‘Is that piece about Beatrice in there?’

  ‘You could say that. It’s on the front page.’ She winces.

  My heart is really thumping now. Yesterday, when I was all fired up about the search, it seemed only natural to give an interview. To make sure the net was cast as wide as possible, to leave no stone unturned. But today, after little sleep and two days of worry, I don’t feel able to cope with it. With the attention this interview might shine on me.

  ‘Have you read it?’

  Laurel nods slowly.

  ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘Look, it’s great in terms of getting the word out…’

  ‘But…’ I prompt.

  Laurel winces yet again. ‘The journalist was a bit mean.’

  ‘Mean?’ Oh no.

  She slides the newspaper across the table. I take a breath, square my shoulders and unfold it. The main photograph isn’t of Beatrice; it’s of me. I look as though I’m posing for an old-fashioned postcard with my fingers touching my hair in an affected way, a half-smile on my face that makes it look as though I’m enjoying myself. Beatrice’s picture is further down the page and is less than a quarter the size of mine. The huge headline reads: Glamorous Granny Loses Granddaughter at the Fair!

  My mouth falls open. ‘Oh, no. That’s awful. It’s just… awful.’

  ‘Yep, they’re bast
ards,’ Laurel says. She seems relieved now that she’s told me.

  I shake my head and push the paper back towards her. ‘I really don’t want to read it, not after seeing that headline. I don’t think I can handle any more awfulness. What’s Ollie going to say?’ And I don’t even want to think about Claire’s reaction.

  ‘Do you want me to summarise it for you?’ Laurel asks. I’m annoyed to see her mouth twitching as though she’s trying to stifle a smile, even though her blue eyes are filled with concern.

  ‘All right, Laurel, but please be gentle.’

  ‘Okay, so…’ She picks up the paper and clears her throat. ‘It says that Beatrice went missing at the fair, but it makes you come across as a bit vain. It quotes you saying how Beatrice takes after you looks wise, and how beautiful she is. Basically it makes you sound like you’re more concerned with your looks than with your granddaughter going missing. It also makes you sound a bit scatty. I mean, it’s not as blatant as that, but that’s the overall vibe of the piece. Do you want me to read the bad bits out? Or the non-bad bits?’

  I feel nauseous. I taste milky coffee in the back of my throat, my skin has gone cold and my vision is blurring. This is horrible. ‘I don’t want you to read any of it out,’ I squeak. ‘Why would he do that? Why would that man write such terrible things about me? What did I ever do to him?’

  ‘It’s what they do, isn’t it? They find an angle.’

  ‘I was talking about how beautiful she is, not to blow my own trumpet, but because I love her and she’s a beautiful child – inside and out. I’m sure any grandparent would say the same thing, wouldn’t they?’

  Laurel shrugs. ‘I feel bad for telling you. I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else.’

  ‘He’s twisted my words.’ I feel like such an idiot. I thought Giles Renton and I were bonding. I’d felt sure he liked me and was going to write a sympathetic piece. I wonder if he actually does have a daughter the same age as Beatrice, or if he lied about that to get me to open up to him.