My Little Girl

by Shalini Boland

  Laurel isn’t proving as good of a friend as I thought she’d be. I’m grateful to her for picking me up from the police station and for coming to the search party, of course I am, but it’s her attitude that baffles me. I’ve never noticed that side to her personality before. It’s as though she’s enjoying the drama that’s unfolding. Like she’s almost excited by it. So I think it’s better if I keep her at arm’s length for a while.

  It’s almost lunchtime and I’m still in my dressing gown. I really should shower and dress but I’m not sure there’s much point. Why haven’t the police found Beatrice yet? Surely she should be home by now. It’s Tuesday already and she’s been gone since Saturday. Where is she? I’m aching to see her – a hollow yet heavy feeling in my stomach that won’t go away.

  I’d give anything to be able to give her a cuddle and hear one of her funny stories. It’s a thing we used to do when she was with me – she’d pretend to be someone famous or important or clever – a film star, or an explorer or a queen – and she would make up these silly, crazy stories about it. We’d dress up and turn the house into a pretend palace or a film set, or we’d make believe we were on a safari or in space or on some other exciting adventure.

  I pull out a photo album from the sideboard. It’s one that Bob and I put together during a particularly wet and dreary February several years ago when Bea was little more than a toddler. I take it over to the kitchen armchair and sit, pulling my feet up under me, like I used to do when I was a girl. On opening the album, my heart fills up at the sight of us all with smiles on our faces. Especially the pictures of Beatrice with her chubby face and her hair in little bunches. And then there are the rest of us – me, Bob, Oliver and Claire. There are also a few snaps of Claire’s parents, Doug and Sheena Mitchell; such a nice couple.

  Sheena actually called me yesterday and we had a long chat. It sounds like they’re keeping optimistic. I could tell she was trying to gee me up, making it clear that she didn’t think Bea’s disappearance was in any way my fault, which was really lovely of her. She said that it’s impossible to keep an eye on them every single second. Her kind words brought a lump to my throat, but I managed not to cry down the phone.

  My pulse jumps at the sound of my phone pinging. It could be news. Please let it be something good. I glance around the room, searching for my phone before realising it’s in my dressing-gown pocket. I pull it out to see that I’ve received a text. I open it and frown as I read the few short words:

  How could you lose your own granddaughter?

  I re-scan the words, thinking I must have read it wrong. That no one would be so nasty as to send such a vile message. There’s no mistaking what it says or the meaning behind it. My mouth goes dry and my heart speeds up. Someone is blaming me for Bea’s disappearance. Someone anonymous. The mobile number isn’t from any of my contacts. So who sent it?

  My first thought is to call Laurel. But then I remember our talk yesterday where it seemed like she was enjoying my discomfort over the newspaper story. I have the awful feeling that if I told her about this text message, she might have the same reaction. I absolutely couldn’t bear that. Besides, I’d have thought she might have called me after we left things yesterday on such an awkward note, but I haven’t heard a peep out of her. Not so much as a text… unless… no, don’t be silly. Laurel would never do anything as terrible as this. I push the thought from my head. I’ll call the police and let them handle it.

  The phone wobbles in my fingers as I try to steady my hands enough to find the DI’s number. I’ve already entered it into my contact list, but I can’t remember her name. My mind has gone blank. I stare at the screen, willing myself to concentrate and get control of my emotions, but my eyes are pooling with tears. Why is everything so hateful right now?

  Bea, where are you?

  I take a breath and wipe my eyes, trying to be sensible about this. Whoever sent that message is a nasty individual and they don’t deserve my tears or my worry. They won’t reduce me to a blubbering mess. I try to think about what Bob would say right now if he were here. He’d put a comforting arm around me and say, Come on now, Jilly, you can do this. And so I shall.

  The fog in my brain clears, and I remember that the DI’s name is Meena Khatri. Scrolling through my contacts, I find her listed under ‘D’ for DI. Even if I hadn’t remembered, all I would need to do is call the station and tell them who I am. I must stop getting into a flap all the time. If I just take a moment to calm myself, I usually manage just fine.

  I call the number, tell them who I am and ask to speak to the DI. I don’t have to wait long before being put through. I calmly tell her about the horrible text message and give her the number it originated from. Meena Khatri is very sympathetic and patient, assuring me that she’ll look into it as soon as she’s able. She asks if I’m all right and suggests that I should call a friend or member of the family as it must have been a shock. I thank her and tell her I’m fine, but after ending the call, I realise that I would actually like to be with someone right now. Someone who understands what I’m going through.

  I’m going to visit Claire.

  It’s time to put this bad feeling behind us. I’ll go over there, apologise again, grovel if I have to. I just can’t bear this hostility hanging between us. Especially not at a time when we should all be pulling together. Not to mention the fact that it makes things awkward for Oliver. He shouldn’t have to be caught between us, having to choose sides. It’s not fair on him. And it makes no sense. He rang me earlier from the shop to check in on how I was doing, but he didn’t sound like his usual warm, caring self. He was detached, like he was calling out of a sense of duty.

  I decide not to call ahead, even though I know that Claire isn’t a fan of people showing up unannounced on the doorstep. But if I call, that will give her the opportunity to fob me off. I suppose I’m taking the risk that she won’t even be in, but if that’s the case, I’ll sit on her doorstep and wait.

  I quickly dress in plain linen trousers and a floaty patterned top that will hopefully be nice and cool, and leave the house. I don’t feel up to driving, so I decide to take the bus instead. As a pensioner I have a free bus pass so it’s daft not to take advantage of that. It’ll be good practice for when my licence gets revoked next week. Part of me doesn’t even mind losing my licence. I live so close to town that I can walk most places anyway. I may even get rid of the car altogether. It could be quite liberating in a strange kind of way, and at least I won’t have the exorbitant running expenses.

  The only downside to taking public transport is the time it takes – I have to walk to the bus stop, then wait for the bus, then there are the endless stops it makes. What would have been a ten-minute drive takes forty minutes. But that’s fine, I’m not on any deadline. As I approach the St Catherine’s Hill stop, I ring the bell, make my way to the exit, thank the driver and finally step down onto the pavement. The bus lurches away and I start to feel a little nervous. It’s all very well having good intentions, but what if Claire slams the door in my face? What if Oliver is back home from the shop already and is cold towards me?

  No sense in worrying and wondering; I’ll find out soon enough. I walk along to the pedestrian crossing and wait for the green man to flash. As I stand here, I can’t help looking out for Beatrice. I did the same on the bus. Every time I saw a dark-haired child through the window, my heart did a little flip. But it was never her.

  I head along the main road a short way, turn into their road and start walking up the hill. I cross over the street to be in the shade, but the early afternoon air is warm and heavy and my breath is laboured by the time I reach their property – a boring-looking yellow-brick 1970s chalet bungalow with no character whatsoever. And yet the location of the house is wonderful, set at the base of St Catherine’s Hill, a stunning nature reserve that forms part of a ridge between the Avon and Stour valleys.

  I note that Claire’s Toyota is parked on the sloping drive, but Oliver’s car is nowhere to b
e seen. Pausing to rest against their wall for a minute, I tell myself it’s so I can get my breath back, but I know it’s also to steel my nerves and calm the ebb and swell in my stomach before braving the steep steps that lead to their front door. Before I come face to face again with my daughter-in-law.

  Back before they bought the house, Oliver invited Bob and I round for a viewing. Bob warned him against buying it because of these very steps. Claire was pregnant at the time and he worried about her having to lug the pram up and down in all weathers, not to mention the fear of her or a toddler tumbling down. I told him not to be such a stick in the mud, that they were young and fit and it would be fine, especially with all that wonderful nature on their doorstep – perfect for bringing up children. Oliver had looked at me gratefully, and Bob hadn’t mentioned it again. In hindsight, he was probably right. Claire did take a nasty tumble one icy winter, banging her coccyx on one of the steps. But Bob was never one to say I told you so.

  Once my breath is back, I climb the steps and ring the doorbell, the blood pumping through my veins and whooshing in my ears. I really need to calm down. I’m here to try to make amends, to build bridges and be nice. A loud hammering rings out from one of the neighbouring properties. The sound goes straight through my brain. I hope I’m not getting a headache.

  I hear footsteps beyond the door, the jangle of keys and then Claire’s standing there, squinting as the sun hits her face. ‘Jill? I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything okay? Have you got news?’ Her words are staccato bullets, fast and sharp. Her expression is harsh and drawn.

  ‘No news, I’m afraid. Can I… would you mind if I came in?’

  ‘Oh. Well, sure, but Oliver isn’t here. I can get him to call round to your place when he gets home if you like?’ She makes no move to step back and allow me in.

  ‘It’s actually you I’ve come to see, Claire, not Oliver.’ I try to make my expression as soft and friendly as I can, but my face hurts with the effort. This isn’t going to be a pleasant visit. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

  Twenty-Three

  JILL

  I stand on the doorstep waiting for my daughter-in-law to let me into her house. Surely she won’t refuse me entry.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Claire blinks furiously and moves to the side. ‘Sorry, come in.’

  Finally, I step into the blissfully cool hall and we give one another an awkward peck on the cheek.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asks as I follow her through to the kitchen.

  ‘A glass of water would be lovely.’

  ‘I’ve got orange juice if you prefer?’

  ‘Actually, that sounds perfect.’ My gaze alights on a jug of white lilies on the kitchen table. ‘Who gave you those?’

  Claire waves her hand dismissively. ‘Just a client.’ She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of what appears to be fresh orange juice. It looks heavenly.

  ‘Strange choice of flowers,’ I muse. ‘White lilies are supposed to signify death.’

  She gives me a funny look. ‘They’re just flowers, Jill.’

  I bite my lower lip, annoyed with myself for sounding judgy. ‘Of course.’ Then I spot a vase of yellow roses on the windowsill. ‘Are those from Paul and Tanya Jensen?’

  Claire pours two glasses of orange juice. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘They sent me the same bouquet.’

  She passes me one of the glasses. ‘Was Paul rude to you as well?’

  I give her a knowing look and, for a second, it almost feels like we’re bonding. ‘Yes, but I think it was just the stress of the situation. I’m sure he didn’t mean to be so snappy.’

  Claire mutters something under her breath.

  ‘Sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just up to here with Phil next door and his incessant hammering.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I noticed it when I was standing outside. It gave me a headache after two minutes so goodness knows how you’re putting up with it.’

  ‘It’s never-ending. I think he’s addicted to DIY.’ Claire sighs and sips her drink. I take a sip of mine too. It’s ice-cold, sweet and sharp and gives me just the zing of energy I need. Claire sits at the table and gestures to me to sit opposite. She moves the lilies to the side so we can see one another. Her lips are pressed together and her brow is ridged with stress lines. ‘So, did you come over for a reason, Jill?’

  My mind is suddenly blank, but I open my mouth hoping something sensible and conciliatory will emerge. ‘I just… I wanted to say that I’m so, so very sorry about everything. I’m sure Beatrice will be found, but in the meantime, I’m here for you. I’m… I know you and I haven’t got along so well these past few years and I know it’s my fault that Bea’s missing. I love you and Oliver and Bea – truth be told, you’re my world. I just…’ The words tumble out quickly, but now there’s a lump in my throat and I don’t think I can continue, not without crying. And if I do that, then this will become all about me, and not about supporting Claire.

  Claire doesn’t say anything for a moment. There’s just a heavy silence. Even next door’s hammering has paused. She finally exhales. ‘I appreciate that, Jill. Thanks.’

  I nod, unsure what to say next. We sip our drinks. Then I say something stupid. ‘I should probably tell you something else…’

  Her eyes sharpen and her body tenses. ‘Tell me what?’

  Shut up, Jill. Shut up. ‘The thing is, it’s irrelevant, and it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway…’

  ‘What wouldn’t have made any difference?’ Claire’s voice is like rusty nails.

  ‘At the time Bea went missing, I was on my mobile phone. I mean, I was still with the girls, still looking out for them, but I answered a call.’ I hear the quaver in my voice. Why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut, Jill?

  ‘Did you tell the police?’ Her eyes don’t leave mine. I almost feel as though she’s inside my head.

  ‘I’m afraid I forgot. At the time, everything was so muddled.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Claire shakes her head in disgust. ‘You wouldn’t have forgotten that. Who were you talking to?’

  I cringe. ‘Laurel.’

  ‘You were chatting to Ollie’s ex-wife while my seven-year-old daughter was being abducted?’ Claire rises to her feet, folding her arms across her chest.

  ‘We don’t know she was abducted.’

  ‘No, and we didn’t know you were on the phone either. Does Ollie know about this?’

  ‘What? No. No one knows. Like I said, I didn’t think it was important.’

  Claire gives a disbelieving grunt. ‘What were you talking about with Laurel?’ She says her name like it’s a dirty word.

  ‘What? Oh, I don’t know. Nothing really. She was just calling to have a chat.’

  ‘You’ve always preferred her, haven’t you?’

  I feel my cheeks redden as I deny it.

  Claire pours the rest of her juice down the sink and rinses the glass. She stands with her back to me and I feel wretched. I’ve utterly messed this up. I came here to make my daughter-in-law feel better, not worse. I need to think carefully before I open my mouth again.

  I take another sip of my drink and try to explain. ‘It’s not even a matter of who I prefer. There’s no contest – you’re my son’s wife, my daughter-in-law, Beatrice’s mum. The fact is, I feel sorry for Laurel. Oliver treated her badly when they broke up. He accused her of having an affair, but I don’t think she did. She worshipped him too much to do anything like that. Anyway, things didn’t work out and they parted ways. That’s all in the past and of course I’m happy that you’re with Oliver now. The three of you are my world and I feel terrible about my part in this nightmare. I will never forgive myself if anything’s happened to that precious child.’ My voice is cracking now and I can’t stop the tears escaping. ‘I came here to apologise, because I feel dreadful about everything. I want to support you and Oliver. I want to be here for you both.’

  Claire sniffs and puts t
he glass on the drainer. ‘You’ll have to tell the police… about the phone call.’

  ‘Of course.’ I rummage in my bag for a tissue and dab at my eyes. ‘I’ll call them today.’ I think about the other call I made to them earlier, about the nasty message I received. But I can’t bring myself to tell Claire about that. I don’t want to frighten her unnecessarily.

  When she turns around, it looks like she might have been crying too. She comes and sits back down, takes a breath. ‘I’m not particularly happy about what you’ve just told me, Jill, but I can’t concentrate on that right now. Not after what I discovered this morning.’

  I give her an enquiring look.

  She leans back in her seat. ‘Firstly, I went back to the fair earlier today and spoke to a couple of the workers there.’

  ‘Oh?’ I wait for her to continue.

  ‘I didn’t learn anything new, but I’d made up my mind to go back there this afternoon and do some more digging.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ I interrupt. ‘You should really let the police handle that side of things. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Hang on, let me finish. I said I’d planned to go back, but then I went to see Freya and her family and learned some new information.’ Her face pales and she runs her tongue over her teeth, trying to stop herself from crying.

  ‘What is it. What’s the matter?’

  She swallows. ‘There’s a rumour that this choirmaster, called Gavin Holloway, was at the fair the evening Bea went missing.’

  I frown, trying to remember where I’ve heard that name before.

  ‘He was forced to resign from his job last year because…’ her voice trails off and she covers her mouth with her hand.