My Little Girl

by Shalini Boland

  I’m hot and sweaty by the time I reach the entrance, which is just wide enough to let a vehicle through. A man stands inside to the left. He’s looking at his mobile phone and sipping from a coke can. I walk through the gap as purposefully as possible, looking straight ahead. I’m almost certain I’m getting away with it, until the man calls after me.

  ‘Oi, can I help you?’

  I turn around and point to my chest. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, right, I’m here to help Sam. She’s not feeling too good. Kai told me to go straight over to the stall. Is that okay?’ I give him a hesitant smile.

  ‘Kai knows you’re here?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m his cousin.’ I hope I haven’t gone too far. What if this man’s related to Kai too? But I needn’t have worried.

  ‘Cool, yeah, sure, go through. Sam’s setting up opposite the ghost train.’ He points to a spot in the distance on the right.

  ‘Cheers.’ I walk off confidently, my heart hammering at how spectacularly wrong that could have gone.

  Once I’m a few hundred yards away, I step behind a hoopla stall and try to calm down. That’s one hurdle over with. Now I have to focus on what I came here for and check as many of these vehicles and trailers as possible, before they realise who I am and why I’m here.

  I head out towards the metal fencing to where most of the trucks are parked, keeping my phone to my ear so it looks like I’m occupied. I slip alongside a massive red lorry. The cab is empty and the rear door is shuttered. I move on to the next truck, which is open at the rear but completely empty, aside from a few metal poles. As I keep going, I realise that Beatrice is less likely to be in one of these trucks – they’re all either empty or full of fairground equipment. If she’s being held at the fair, she’s more likely to be in one of the caravans or trailers. I should search those first.

  Skirting close to the fence, I make my way around the site until I spot what I’m looking for – a cluster of cars and caravans parked between two huge trailers. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around here at the moment; I guess they’re all busy setting up the rides. I keep my phone clamped to my ear as I walk up to the closest caravan. The curtains are all closed. I try the door handle, but of course it’s locked. One of the windows has been left open a crack, probably because it’s such a hot day. I crouch down and try to peer through, but the interior is dark.

  ‘Beatrice,’ I hiss. ‘Bea, are you in there?’ There’s no reply. I glance around to check that no one’s about, before sliding my fingers in through the gap and dislodging the window catches. This allows me to open the window fully. I can’t believe it was that easy. I poke my head inside the caravan. It’s neat and tidy, quiet and still. ‘Beatrice?’

  Unless she’s been shut in the toilet, she’s not here.

  I need to move quickly if I’m to check all the caravans. A couple of them are locked up tight with no means of seeing inside, but most have left their windows open and I’m able to take a look. I’m guessing they don’t keep anything of value in them – they probably lock their valuables in their cars. Even so, I’m surprised at the lax security and at the fact I was able to get onto the site so easily.

  Male voices coming my way have me skirting around a pickup truck and walking towards the fence. I lurk behind a camper van until the voices die away. I must have checked eight or nine caravans so far and there’s no trace of my daughter. I don’t know what I expected to find – Beatrice tied up in a van? Or unconscious? Drugged? If someone took her would they then be so stupid as to keep her here at a busy fairground? Although, I suppose she could be locked in one of the bedrooms, out of sight. I can’t deny that I’m starting to feel completely disheartened. But I’m here now; I may as well finish checking the other caravans.

  The next three are all locked, windows closed, with no way of seeing in, but as I approach a large silver camper van, I stiffen in shock as I hear a child crying inside. My whole body goes on alert. Chills lift the fine hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck. I start shaking in anticipation. I want to cry out, shout her name, but I can’t alert anyone that I’m here, that I may well have found my daughter. If whoever took her knows I’m standing right outside the camper, I could end up endangering us both.

  The thing is, I don’t know if she’s in there alone, or if she’s being guarded. I have no idea what to do for the best. From this side, I can see that the curtained window at the rear is open, but can I risk peering in? It’s dark in there and bright out here, so if there are other people inside the van, they’ll see me straight away. The sunlight glints off the silver exterior. This isn’t like the other basic caravans. This is a top-of-the-range motorhome.

  Now I can hear another set of voices getting closer. I edge back around the van and stay still, hoping whoever it is goes away.

  ‘Well I didn’t know. She said she was Kai’s cousin.’

  This isn’t good. It’s the guy from the main gate. They must be looking for me.

  ‘I don’t care if she said she was the Queen of England; you don’t let anyone in without a pass. Idiot.’ That sounds a lot like Monty Burridge.

  I don’t know what to do. If they find me before I’ve had a chance to check the camper van, then I might miss my opportunity. If Monty is behind her abduction, then I’m in serious trouble right now. Especially as I didn’t tell anyone where I am. I quickly open WhatsApp on my phone and take a picture of the camper van, making sure to get the number plate. I send it to Oliver with the caption ‘Wimborne fair’.

  ‘Hello, Claire.’ I almost cry out in shock as Monty comes striding around the camper.

  I shove my phone into my bag. ‘Hi, Monty.’ My heart is hammering against my ribcage. ‘I just have to…’ and then before he comes any closer, I leg it back around the camper to the rear window and yank it fully open before hoisting myself up into the interior of the van where I land on a table with a thump.

  A youngish woman jumps to her feet. ‘What the hell! Who are you?’ She shoves a child behind her. It’s so dark in here after the brightness of outside, I feel almost blind.

  ‘Beatrice!’ I cry. ‘Bea, is that you? It’s Mummy, I’m here, Bea. I’m here.’ I lunge for the woman, but she dodges me.

  ‘Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bitch.’

  ‘Is that my daughter? Did you take her?’

  ‘You come any closer, I’ll punch your lights out.’

  The door to the camper crashes open and three figures burst in, throwing a shaft of light across the interior. I recognise all three men – the security guard, Monty and Kai.

  ‘You okay, Jen?’ Monty puts a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeah.’ She nods without taking her eyes off me. ‘Who’s this psycho?’

  ‘Claire Nolan,’ Monty replies. ‘You know. The mother of the girl.’ He looks at me. ‘Claire, you need to calm down and step outside. You’re scaring the little one.’

  The child peers out from behind the woman, her brown, tear-filled eyes wide with fright, dark hair tied into an unfamiliar bun on the top of her head. I blink once, twice. She’s young. Too young to be Beatrice. It’s not my daughter.

  I feel my jaw slacken, my body slump, my brain computing the awfulness of what I’ve just done. ‘Oh, no, I… I’m so sorry.’ I put a hand out as though to stroke the child’s cheek, even though she’s several paces out of reach. I let my hand fall back to my side and bow my head.

  When I finally look up again, everyone’s staring at me like I’m a bomb about to blow them all to smithereens. ‘Come on, Claire,’ Monty says, calmly. He comes and stands beside me, ushers me out of the dark camper and back into the glare of the sun.

  I don’t even know what to say. It’s obvious they know why I went in there, so there’s no point explaining. The three of them escort me back across the fairground where I stare straight ahead at the gates, ignoring the dozens of fair workers who are giving me sideways glances as word spreads of what’s happened.

  ‘A
re you going to call the police?’ I ask, my voice sounding foreign to my ears.

  ‘I should,’ Monty replies. ‘But no. As long as you promise not to come back again. You scared the daylights out of Jen and Sia.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Will you apologise to them for me?’

  Monty gives a terse nod. ‘They’re my daughter and granddaughter, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I really am very sorry.’ I swallow the lump in my throat, mortified that I’ve put him and his family through such trauma. The colours and shapes of the fairground rides merge in my peripheral vision, swimming in and out of view as we walk – the dodgems, the chair ride, the ghost train… it’s all supposed to be such good fun. Instead, this fair has become my nightmare.

  We finally reach the entrance gates and everyone comes to a halt. Monty turns to face me. ‘You can’t go around breaking into private property. I know this must be awful for you. But your daughter isn’t here at my fair. Like I said, the police checked, and I checked. She’s not here. Do you understand?’

  I nod, unblinking, barely breathing, my hands hanging loose at my sides as I stare at my feet.

  ‘Good. Now I hope you find your little one, but right now, you need to go home. And if I see you at my fairground again, I will be calling the police.’

  I leave the fairground as though in a dream, putting one foot in front of the other, I reach the pavement and have to take a few deep breaths to work out where I am and which way I need to go in order to get back to the car. My legs feel soft as marshmallow and I wish I could take the time to sit and recover, but I’m sure Monty, Kai and the others are watching me. I need to get out of here.

  There’s a gap in the traffic so I start walking across the road just as a dark-green car pulls away. There’s something familiar about that vehicle. I snap up my head and stare at its receding shape. That’s… it’s… a green Volvo. And the driver… I recognised his face as he drove off, that messy ash-blonde hair. It’s my client – Stephen Lang! What the hell was he doing parked across the road from the fair? This is all too much to process. My head is spinning. It’s just one thing after another.

  Thirty-Five

  JILL

  Against all my good intentions to keep Laurel at arm’s length, I find myself walking into town late this afternoon to meet her. Her phone call came at a weak moment after Oliver left my house this morning. I couldn’t believe he didn’t even stay long enough to have a cup of coffee with his own mother. What was the point in him even coming around if he was just going to leave again? Although I have to remind myself that my poor boy is hardly thinking straight at the moment. Nobody is. So when Laurel called and asked me to meet her at the Bridge Street coffee shop, I foolishly said yes.

  Now that I’m on my way over, I’m starting to realise that this might not be the best idea. Especially since I told Claire about Laurel calling me at the fair, and then Claire reported it to the police. I have a feeling that Laurel might want to meet me so she can tell me off. I could really do without the drama and accusations. I need support, not aggravation.

  But here I am, heading to meet her anyway. I wish I were better at saying no. Never mind – I’ll go for half an hour, listen to what she has to say, then make my excuses and leave.

  Town is busy, the pavement thick with shoppers and tourists, the main road choked with crawling traffic. So many people. I wonder if any of them know what’s happened to my granddaughter. I gaze at the cars, at their occupants. Any one of those people might have seen Beatrice and not know it. Or perhaps one of them is responsible for her disappearance. How would I ever know?

  I shake away these useless thoughts. It’s not like me to speculate like this. There’s really no point. It won’t do any good. I simply have to trust that the police will do their job and find Beatrice. They have to. There’s no acceptable alternative. I take a breath to stop the tears that are suddenly threatening to fall. I can’t break down in the middle of town. Despite all attempts, a lone tear escapes. I bow my head and brush it away with a no-nonsense swipe from the back of my hand.

  At least with the traffic at a virtual standstill it’s easy enough to cross the road. I weave through the cars and almost trip up the kerb on the other side. These sandals are a menace, I should have worn less hazardous footwear. As I walk down Bridge Street, I try to steady my breathing and stifle my emotions. Part of me wants to turn tail and run home, but I keep going until I’m entering the coffee shop, the bell above the door sounding decidedly too cheerful.

  I glance around, but there’s no sign of my ex-daughter-in-law. The café’s full so I hover at the counter, gazing longingly at the overpriced cakes while throwing glances over my shoulder to check on the table situation.

  A few moments later, an elderly couple at a window seat start making a move to stand up. I dart over and ask them if they’re leaving. They are. I stake my claim by laying my handbag on the table and do the polite thing by holding open the door for them as they shuffle out – one with a walking stick, the other with a walking frame. As they’re attempting to walk out through the door, Laurel appears and rudely sidles past them with an exasperated huff. Oh dear. She does not look happy.

  ‘Hello, Jill,’ she manages through thin lips.

  ‘Hi, Laurel.’ My throat constricts at the thought of another confrontation. Once again, I wish I’d stayed home.

  Laurel’s aloofness doesn’t last long. ‘Ugh, it’s so busy everywhere, I couldn’t get parked, and now it looks like it’s full in here too.’ She proclaims this loud enough that several customers look up.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I hiss, not wanting her to make a scene. ‘I got us a table.’ I point to the prime spot in the window.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness.’ Laurel sinks into the chair facing the street, leaving me to edge around the table and wedge myself into the seat opposite. She raises a hand and waves over a waitress. ‘A pot of tea please, and a glass of tap water.’

  ‘Make that two of each please,’ I add.

  ‘Anything to eat?’ The waitress asks.

  ‘No thanks.’ I shake my head regretfully.

  ‘I’ll have a toasted teacake,’ Laurel replies. ‘Could you make sure they spread the butter on while it’s still warm, so it melts.’

  ‘We usually bring the butter out separately,’ the waitress says with a hesitant smile.

  ‘Fine, okay, thanks.’

  The waitress wipes our table down and leaves.

  Laurel picks up a menu, using it to fan herself. ‘I’m so hot and sticky I could die.’

  ‘Everything okay, Laurel? You seem a bit flustered.’

  ‘Yes, well that would be down to your new daughter-in-law.’

  ‘She’s hardly new, Laurel. Eight years is a while.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ She flaps a hand dismissively.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask, bracing myself.

  ‘Did you know that Claire reported the call I made to you at the fair, as though there was something suspicious about it? As though I’d done it on purpose to distract you or something?’

  I wince.

  ‘You did know!’

  ‘I told her to leave it to me to sort out, but you can’t blame her. She’s beside herself about Beatrice. We all are.’

  ‘I know! But for her to think that I could be responsible for such a thing… I’m really hurt. Does Ollie know about this? What’s his take on it? Have you seen him recently? He wasn’t at home today.’

  ‘You went round there?’ Claire and Laurel don’t have any kind of relationship, so I’m surprised Laurel showed up at their house.

  ‘Of course I went round there! I’m not going to let someone smear my name and then not give my side of the story.’

  ‘It’s hardly smearing your name.’

  ‘Since when did you start taking her side?’

  ‘Oh, Laurel, it’s not about taking sides. It’s about my missing granddaughter. You really have to stop taking this personally.’

  ‘I’ll
stop taking this personally when she stops getting personal.’ Laurel leans forward and lowers her voice. ‘Do you know what she did?’

  ‘Who, Claire?’

  ‘She broke into her neighbour’s shed because she thought he might be hiding Beatrice in there.’

  I frown. ‘You mean the DIY neighbour?’

  ‘He’s not a DIY neighbour!’ Laurel seems overly upset for something that doesn’t relate to her.

  ‘Yes he is,’ I insist. ‘You know, always hammering and drilling. He’s been driving Claire and Ollie mad with all the noise. So she thought he had Bea? What made her think that? Is it true? Oh my goodness!’ I clap a hand over my mouth at the thought of it.

  ‘No it isn’t true!’ Laurel snaps, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Sorry, I was only asking.’ I stare at Laurel for a moment. She looks tired, her forehead is creased and dark shadows sit beneath her eyes. She’s fiddling with her rings, twisting them around her fingers, a thing she always does when she’s worried. ‘What’s happened, Laurel?’

  Her face flushes and she glances up at me quickly before looking away.

  ‘You know you can tell me anything. How long have we been friends? I’m not going to judge or blame you.’

  She lets out a sigh. ‘Oh, Jill, it was awful.’

  ‘A pot of tea for two, two waters and a toasted teacake.’ The waitress puts our order on the table and leaves us to it.

  ‘I don’t know why I ordered this teacake now, I’m not hungry.’ Laurel pushes it towards me. ‘Do you want it?’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll have half.’ I pour our teas while Laurel launches into her story.

  ‘Claire and Ollie’s “DIY neighbour” as you call him, is actually my boyfriend.’

  I put down the teapot. ‘What? You have a boyfriend? Why didn’t I know about this?’

  ‘His name’s Philip, and we’ve been seeing one another for a few months now. It’s not that serious. He lives with his mother and he’s not even my type really. He used to come into the restaurant on his own and would always chat me up. He’d been asking me out for ages, but I’d always knock him back. Then one day he came in when I was feeling particularly low and I thought, what the hell, why don’t I go on a date with him, nothing to lose.