My Little Girl

by Shalini Boland

  They’re not in there for long. Thirty seconds at most before they step outside again and thank Philip. Thank him. Why did they spend such a short time in there? Surely they should have gone through the place with a fine-tooth comb. Unless they’re going to call in the specialists – CSI, or whatever they’re called.

  Philip glances up at my window with a scowl and I step further back into the room. Although I don’t know why I’m skulking about in the shadows. I’ve got nothing to hide. I sit on the bed and try to think positive. Hopefully, the police will search the house next. Although surely they’d need a warrant to do that. Would they have one ready prepared? I should have asked them when they were here.

  Minutes later, the doorbell rings. I quickly glance out of Beatrice’s bedroom window to see the tops of the officers’ heads. No child with them. No Beatrice. Deep disappointment lands in my gut, a heavy pull of hopelessness and despair. What’s the point in opening the door to hear them tell me she’s not there? That I got it wrong. That my overactive imagination has been wasting police time.

  But then I reason that just because she’s not with them, doesn’t mean they didn’t find something. I leave Bea’s room and hurry down the stairs to open the front door and invite them back in. We stand in the hallway while I listen to Garrett explain that Philip Aintree offered to let them search his house and the shed.

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Mr Aintree was very cooperative and understanding.’

  Understanding! I can’t even formulate a reply to that.

  Garrett continues talking. ‘He wasn’t happy that you’ve been spying on him and trespassing on his property, but he knows what you’ve been going through and is sympathetic.’

  ‘What about the sofa bed, and the colouring pad and pencils, the snacks? It looks like he’s had a child in there.’

  ‘I know you’re disappointed we didn’t find your daughter there, but it’s not illegal to have a sofa bed and, if his girlfriend is visiting… well… The man lives in his mother’s house. I’d say he was just looking for some privacy.’

  ‘Fine.’ I rub my forehead.

  ‘We took a good look around. The pad is an artists’ sketch book, and the pencils are watercolour pencils. Mr Aintree showed us some of the drawings – they’re landscapes done by his girlfriend, not the work of a seven-year-old.’

  So, Ollie was right. That’s what he said they’d be. I feel so stupid. But I still think that something’s off with Laurel. I’m about to voice my doubts to Garrett, but I stop myself. Rather than throwing out accusations based on gut feelings and intuition, I’d be better off trying to gather some evidence. Otherwise, the police might stop taking me seriously.

  I breathe deeply, trying to disperse the excess adrenaline coursing through my body. ‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Thank you for looking into it. I really appreciate your time.’

  Garrett’s shoulders relax. I think he was expecting more resistance. ‘You’re welcome. It’s always worth letting us know about any suspicions. Only next time, maybe leave out the trespassing, okay? You were lucky he was so understanding.’

  Lucky. Yeah, right. ‘Sure. I’m sorry.’

  The officers leave and I remain where I am in the hall. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something obvious. That if only I could get my brain to work properly, I’d be able to see what’s going on. It feels like one of those pictures where you have to blur your eyes in order to see the image, but it takes a while. What am I not seeing? I sit on the stairs, rubbing my jaw as I try to let my mind come up with an answer.

  Earlier, I’d been convinced that Laurel and Philip had taken Beatrice. Now I’m not sure what to think. I run through all the suspects and possibilities in my head, not discounting any of them – Holloway, Philip, Laurel, someone from the fair, a random stranger, an accident. Why is it that the list of possibilities is expanding rather than narrowing? Why aren’t we any closer to getting Beatrice back?

  Eventually, I heave myself up from the stairs and go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I gaze out the window at Philip’s shed, wondering if Beatrice was ever in there, or if I let myself believe it because I wanted it to be true. Because I wanted it to be that simple. My mind turns to Oliver. What was the reason he had to rush over to his mother’s this morning? Did she need him for something? Or was it an excuse to get out of the house? I can’t be worrying about him right now. He’s a grown man; he doesn’t need me. Beatrice does.

  I sit at the table sipping my glass of water, trying to decide whether I should go out searching the streets again, or have a power nap first to restore some of my energy. I’m starting to feel the effects of a night with no sleep. My eyes are heavy and my thoughts are becoming erratic and strange. I rest my head on my arms and close my eyes for a moment, letting my mind drift off. It feels so nice to just let everything fade out for a short while.

  I’m startled awake by a chiming sound. I sit up and wipe a line of drool from my chin. My back and neck are stiff, my face sweaty and gross. How long was I asleep for? The chime sounds again. It’s the doorbell. I groan as I’m brought back to my surroundings, to my hideous situation. And now I have to face someone while I’m still half asleep and feeling slightly nauseous.

  Wiping my mouth and chin again, I stand and stagger through the kitchen towards the front door. It could be anyone. I’m not even going to try to guess who it is. I decide that unless it’s someone with news of Beatrice, I’m going to tell them to go away.

  I open the door and immediately wish I hadn’t. Standing on the doorstep is Oliver’s ex-wife Laurel. And she doesn’t look happy.

  Thirty-Three

  CLAIRE

  ‘How could you?’ The hurt and outrage on Laurel’s face looks fake. As though she’s auditioning for a really bad movie.

  ‘Do you want to come in?’ I stand back and she glides past, her Indian-print skirt swishing, her purple sandals creaking, the bangles on her arm jangling, all of it setting my teeth on edge. ‘Go through,’ I say somewhat redundantly as she’s already in the kitchen, turning to face me, a deep scowl settling onto her delicate features.

  ‘How could you ever think I would take Beatrice? What sort of person do you think I am?’ She takes a breath, but doesn’t pause long enough for me to answer her rhetorical questions. ‘I can’t believe you told the police there was something dodgy about my phone call to Jill while she was at the fair. Jill and I call one another all the time! There’s nothing unusual or sinister about it.’

  ‘So I’ve recently been hearing.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She puts a hand on her hip.

  ‘Nothing. Just that a friend recently told me she saw you with Jill.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Freya. She ran into you at the playing fields last Sunday. Said you blew smoke in her face when she tried to stick up for you.’

  ‘Freya wasn’t sticking up for me. That cow has always had it in for me. I bet she’s the one who put my name in your head, turned you against me.’

  ‘Actually no. She stuck up for you. I told her my suspicions and she defended you. Said you wouldn’t have done anything like that.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Laurel folds her arms across her chest. ‘Well that’s something I suppose. Does Ollie know you reported me and Phil to the police? I bet he doesn’t! Where is he anyway?’ She glances around the room then goes over to the window to peer into the garden. ‘Not out there. Is he upstairs?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ I reply, trying to marshal my thoughts.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Why would I lie?’ Laurel has swept into my home like an unpredictable force of nature so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she raced upstairs to search for him. ‘His car’s not here, in case you didn’t notice.’

  ‘Fine.’ She starts playing with one of the many silver rings on her fingers, twisting it around. ‘Phil rang me. He’s furious and his poor mum is completely mortified. You’ve embarrassed both me and Phil. What poss
essed you to call the police? You could have just gone round there and spoken to him. Or called me. I mean, I know we don’t really know each other that well, or necessarily have anything to do with one another, but I did used to be Ollie’s wife, so I’d have thought you could have done me the courtesy of—’

  I need to stop her monolithic rant. Right now, Laurel’s voice is on a register that could cut through double glazing. It’s making my head throb. ‘Laurel, do you have any idea what it’s like to lose a child? How terrified it makes you? How utterly desperate I am to get her back? If you felt one tenth of what I’m feeling right now, you’d know that I would do literally anything to make this pain and fear go away. To know that she’s safe and well. To know that she’s not…’ I don’t finish my sentence.

  Laurel’s mouth is still open, her jaw dropping lower with each second.

  I take a breath and continue. ‘If I have good reason to think Beatrice might be in the neighbour’s shed then I am going to act. I’m not going to stop and think how embarrassing it might be for you, or Phil’s mum, or how awkward it might make you feel. So I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry, okay? I had to know for certain that Beatrice wasn’t next door.’

  Finally, Laurel’s mouth snaps shut and she clears her throat. ‘I suppose I get that… but still. It was a shock.’ She blinks and nods, toying with a silver chain at her throat.

  ‘Of course,’ I concede.

  Her shoulders droop and she tosses her dyed red hair over her shoulder. She points to one of the chairs. ‘May I?’

  I shrug as she sits, although I remain standing. I’m not about to sit at the table with Ollie’s ex-wife like everything’s hunky-dory and civilised after she’s barged into my house to have a go at me. I need her to realise that this isn’t all about her.

  She sighs. ‘Look, I was as upset as anyone to hear your news. If you must know, I’ve been supporting Jill through all of this. I picked her up from the police station the night she was drinking, I helped organise the search party. It’s all been just awful. So stressful.’

  As I stand here listening to Laurel’s attempts to make herself sound great, I wonder how Oliver could ever have married this self-absorbed woman. I’m still not sure whether or not she might have had something to do with Beatrice’s disappearance. This whole situation with her and Philip feels like too much of a coincidence. As if it’s been engineered.

  ‘How did you and Philip even meet?’

  Laurel clears her throat and looks up at me from under her lashes. ‘Well, he used to come into the restaurant where I work, and after a while we got chatting and he asked me out. I couldn’t believe it when I found out where he lives. I mean, what are the odds of my new boyfriend living next door to my ex-husband?’

  What are the odds indeed? I decide to keep questioning her – who knows when I might get this chance again?

  ‘Why were you meeting in his shed in the early hours of the morning? Why not his house, or your place?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ she snaps, ‘but the reason we meet there is because… well, it just feels weird being in his mother’s house. Although I did tell him to fix the shed up nicely or I wouldn’t be coming over again. I had to design the whole interior for him. He wouldn’t have had a clue otherwise.’

  ‘Hence the DIY obsession,’ I mutter.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Go on.’

  ‘Well, there’s absolutely no privacy at my place because I have annoying and very nosy housemates. Then of course there’s the most obvious reason we’ve had to sneak around…’ She gives me a pointed look.

  I shake my head and hold out my hands. ‘I give up. What reason?’

  ‘I didn’t want you or Oliver to know I’m seeing your neighbour, of course. Of all people! It’s like this weird, annoying coincidence. It’s not the best situation in the world, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Eventually, Laurel and I run out of things to say to one another. She gets up from my kitchen table and gives me a withering stare. ‘Well, I’m still not happy about what you did, but I suppose I can understand why you did it. I do hope Beatrice is found soon.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll be off then. Say hello to Ollie from me.’

  I won’t be doing that. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Bye then.’

  ‘Goodbye, Laurel.’

  I walk down the hall to see her out. From the office window I see her march straight next door to Philip’s. God, what did I do to deserve all this? If she’s going to be round at my neighbour’s all the time, I might seriously have to consider moving house.

  Everything is a jumble in my head. Beatrice is gone. My husband may as well be gone. My neighbour hates me. Laurel hates me. And I can’t think straight. So I’ve decided to stop thinking and start acting. Time for me to stop moping and worrying and pull out all the stops. I grab my bag and phone, scoop my keys up from the hall table and head out. I’ve already spoken to Laurel. Now I’m going to get some more answers.

  Thirty-Four

  CLAIRE

  The drive to Wimborne is frustratingly slow, the summer afternoon traffic clogging up every route in Dorset. I try not to let it stress me out and instead use the journey to plan this afternoon’s strategy. Of course, trying to plan anything is close to useless as I’ve learned that nothing ever works out the way you expect. But going over the details in my head helps me stay calm, keeps my mind occupied and, most importantly, stops me from spinning out at the thought of what might go wrong.

  Thankfully, the fair’s new site is on the outskirts of Wimborne, so I don’t have to join the growing tailback of traffic across the bridge into town. Instead, I head to the showground where they’re setting up, ready for tomorrow.

  I don’t know this area too well, so I let the satnav on my phone guide me. Once I’m close enough to spot the big wheel, I drive a way down the road and park up in a lay-by just along from a busy burger van.

  After locking the car, I stroll back down the road towards the fair, trying to keep hold of the determination I felt earlier. To not let it give way to the nerves starting to bubble up, and to the voice in my head telling me this is a bad idea.

  The birds in the hedgerows chirp and flutter as the occasional car zooms past, exhaust fumes hanging in the humid air. I’m wearing a pair of nondescript denim shorts, a plain black T-shirt, dark sunglasses and a navy baseball cap with my hair tied back in a low ponytail. Hopefully, none of the fair staff will pay attention to me. Hopefully, I’ll blend in with the fair workers who are setting up the rides. That’s the aim anyway.

  The showground is on the opposite side of the road. I walk along, glancing across at the jewel-green grass, at the clusters of teenagers lounging or kicking a ball around, at the dog walkers, at the parents with young children, and finally at the temporary fairground site up ahead, the sound of metal on metal, of hammering and scraping as they build up the fair.

  I stay on the opposite side of the road, walking past, taking in the layout. There are large lorries ranged around in a kind of semi-circle, facing outwards, and various other vehicles, trailers and caravans parked behind them. The whole area is a hive of activity, with people – mainly shirtless men – carrying poles and shouting orders. But thankfully, I’ve spotted a few women too, and my bland clothes should help me blend in. The main obstacle I can see is the temporary metal fencing right the way around the fair site. They didn’t have that in Christchurch. Maybe it’s just needed while they’re setting up. While the vehicles are all open and vulnerable. This convinces me that it’s the perfect time to snoop around. I just need to get inside those barriers.

  I stop in line with the end of the fairground, pull out my phone and pretend to be talking into it as I scan the area again, considering my best plan of action. Most of the rides are still in the process of being built, but they’ve already assembled the spotted teacup ride and the carousel with all its brightly painted horses – Bea’s favourite
. To the left of the carousel, I spy the hoopla stand with all its tacky stuffed toys swinging from the rafters. Whenever we visit the fair, Oliver’s mission is always to win the biggest teddy, but he usually ends up spending more than three times what it’s worth before he either wins it, the stallholder takes pity on him, or he has to part with more money to buy the thing.

  I turn and walk back the way I came. Once I return to where the fencing starts, I cross the road onto the open part of the grass and start walking around the barrier. I stay several feet away, so it doesn’t look like I’m scoping out the place. Thankfully, the lorries are blocking me from view. There’s absolutely no gap in the fencing. It’s over head height and I really don’t want to attempt to climb it. There has to be another way in.

  Despite my trembling hands, I don’t feel nervous, or anxious. What I’m feeling is more like fury and determination. I’m angry at everyone. At Jill for losing Beatrice, at Laurel for being a self-obsessed moron, at Oliver for abandoning me and giving up on our daughter, at the police for not having found her yet, and at Monty Burridge the fairground manager for not being more understanding. He should be letting me in and throwing his vehicles wide open for me to see that my daughter isn’t in one of them. And the fact that he isn’t doing it makes me doubly suspicious.

  I decide that I have nothing to lose. If they catch me, they’ll throw me out, but I’m hoping I’ll get to do some snooping first. Maybe I’ll stumble across some kind of clue to Bea’s whereabouts, or find someone who’ll tell me something useful. I stride around the fair’s perimeter, no longer looking for gaps in the fence, but instead heading for the opening by the road that’s being manned by security.