‘Anyway, we ended up having quite a nice time. He was so attentive and he worships me. I mean it’s almost embarrassing how much he likes me. It makes a nice change to have someone like me more than I like them. So we carried on seeing one another.’
‘Well that sounds nice.’ I start buttering the teacake, a little hurt that she never told me about him. That she let me believe she was lonely and without a partner. ‘But what does this have to do with Philip’s garden shed, and why Claire might think Beatrice was in it?’
‘I don’t even want to say. It’s totally embarrassing.’
‘Laurel, I’m a sixty-five-year-old widow who’s going to court next week for drink-driving. I’ve also been humiliated on the front page of the local paper. I think we’re past the embarrassment stage of our friendship.’
‘Fine.’ She shifts in her seat and takes a sip of tea. ‘Because Philip lives with his mother, we meet in his garden shed.’
I raise an eyebrow, but don’t comment. She looks at me for any sign of judginess so I school my face into a neutral expression.
‘It’s nice in there, he’s transformed it into this really lovely lounge area. Anyway, last night, Claire looked out of her bedroom window and saw him walking up to the shed to meet me. For some reason, Claire waited until we’d gone and then she went up there to have a nose around. She basically went into his garden without permission. The thing is, I sometimes draw and paint up there, so when she looked through the window she saw what she thought was a child’s colouring pad and pencils.’
I join the dots. ‘So she thought a child had been in there, and assumed it was Beatrice.’
‘Exactly. And then she called the police.’ Laurel throws her hands up in the air and leans back in her seat. ‘It was so humiliating. First I felt like a criminal, and then I felt like I was nothing more than a sordid little joke. I bet the police thought it was hilarious – this couple shagging in the garden shed to hide from his mother.’
‘I’m sure they didn’t think anything of the sort.’
Laurel starts viciously buttering her half of the teacake. ‘Bloody butter’s so hard it won’t melt.’ She tosses her knife down and bursts into tears. ‘It’s been such a horrid morning, Jill.’
‘I’m sure it has.’ I reach a hand out and place it over hers. ‘So have the police now cleared you and Philip?’
She sniffs and draws an old tissue from her bag, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. ‘Yes. Thankfully it was all dealt with quite quickly. The police could obviously tell that we’d been wrongly accused. Although the damage has already been done – Phil was quite cross, and his mum looked at me as though I was something she found on her shoe.’
‘Things will settle down. You’ve all had a shock, that’s all.’
‘I suppose.’ She crams a piece of mangled teacake into her mouth and starts chewing. ‘This tastes awful. I think it’s burnt on the bottom.’
‘Well I think it’s nice that you found someone. This Philip sounds like he’s a good person.’
She shrugs. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me about him?’
Laurel stares out the window. ‘I don’t know really. I suppose I never thought of it as a real relationship. We never told anyone we were seeing each other. Like I said before, he’s not my usual type. He’s older for a start. With him living next door to Oliver, I didn’t want to make it official because it would have been awkward. I mean, what would they have thought? Ollie’s ex-wife suddenly going out with his neighbour. It’s too weird.’
I can’t disagree with her so I give a sympathetic smile instead. ‘Do you want more tea?’
She nods so I turn to catch the waitress’s eye, and point to the teapot. As I turn back, my phone pings. I look at the screen to see that I have a new message. It’s from an unknown number. The same unknown number that sent me that awful text asking how I could lose my own granddaughter. As I read this new message, I’m unable to stifle a gasp. My mouth goes dry and my heart starts racing. Can what it says be true? If so, I have to leave right now.
Thirty-Six
CLAIRE
Why on earth was Stephen Lang parked opposite the fairground? He’s a single guy with no family that I’m aware of. Did he follow me to Wimborne? Or was he here for another reason? I caught his eye for a split second as he drove off and he looked decidedly guilty about something. Maybe he arrived before me, but I don’t remember seeing his car when I got here. No, I walked along that stretch of pavement and he definitely wasn’t there then. So why here? Why now?
Should I call the police? Probably not a great idea, because then I’d have to explain what I’m doing here. And I really don’t want to get into all that. I grow cold at the thought of what I’ve just done – breaking into someone’s camper van and scaring a young child. I feel ashamed of myself, even though I did it for my daughter. I know I said I’d do anything to get her back, but when does it become too much? When do my actions start crossing the line? I know the police have to follow the rules for a reason, but would anyone blame me for bending those rules if it meant saving my child?
I realise I’m still standing on the edge of the road. What must Monty and the other fairground workers think, seeing me frozen to the spot like this. I daren’t turn around to see if they’re still there, watching. I force myself to move. To walk away, back towards my car parked further up the road. As I walk, I draw my mind back to Lang. I’m sick of speculating about things. There’s only one way to solve this. I’m going to ring him.
As a client of mine, his number is already in my contacts. I press call but it goes through to voicemail. Hopefully, he’ll pick up the message once he stops driving.
‘Hi, Stephen, it’s Claire here. Claire Nolan. Look, I might be mistaken, but did I just see you opposite the showground in Wimborne? Can you give me a call back once you get this message? Thanks.’
I finally reach my car and slide into the driver’s seat, my hot sweaty body crumpling against the black cloth. What a day. Is this what my life is going to be like now? Suspicion, disappointment and despair? A rollercoaster of emotions with no resolution at the end of it.
I try to recall what day of the week it is… pretty sure it’s Thursday, but I wouldn’t swear to it. That means it’s almost a week since Beatrice went missing. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Not that I have a choice.
I’m not ready to throw in the towel. Unlike my husband, I’m still prepared to do whatever it takes to find my little girl. He hasn’t even called or messaged to see how I am today. I think I’m done with him right now. Sickening though it is, I can’t worry about his apparent lack of interest. I come to the realisation that, even if Oliver has given up, I have not. I will break into houses, lie, steal and crawl over broken glass to get my baby back.
First, I need to sort myself out. I’m not remotely hungry, but I have zero energy, my throat is dry and my stomach is hollow. I start up the car and begin the drive back to Christchurch.
My grocery trip yesterday was derailed by Jill’s shoplifting debacle, so I decide to head back there now. The journey takes a little over half an hour and I zone out through most of it, my brain too exhausted to think.
The supermarket car park is off Soper’s Lane, which will be gridlocked at this hour, so I try my luck along the high street. I shouldn’t have bothered. There isn’t a single parking spot to be had. Maybe I should give up and try to cobble something together from the leftovers at home. I’ll give it one last shot and try Bridge Street car park before calling it a day.
My luck returns and I finally manage to get parked, although it’s quite a walk back to M&S. The pavement is narrow, and the air is close. I’m absolutely dying for a drink of something cold. I’m dreaming of ice cubes clinking in a glass. I glance over the road to the café, wondering if I should nip in for a quick juice, when I spot Laurel in the window seat. I stop walking for a moment. It looks as though she’s crying. The person opposite has her back
to the window, but I’d recognise that stiff-backed posture anywhere – it’s Jill.
Why do I get the feeling Laurel has met up with my mother-in-law to bitch about me? Probably because it’s not hard to work out. Oh well, I’ll leave them to it. Pity about the juice, but there’s no way I’m going in there right now. I’ve had enough of Laurel to last the rest of the year.
I’m about to continue on my way when Jill gets abruptly to her feet and turns away from Laurel. She’s clutching her phone and is staring at it with her mouth open. Laurel looks taken aback and starts speaking urgently to Jill. But my mother-in-law slings her bag over her shoulder and edges around the table. It looks like she’s leaving.
I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want either of them to see me, but I can’t exactly run off down the road as that will only draw more attention. Instead, I turn around so my back is to the café and I pretend to be looking down at my phone. After thirty seconds or so, I throw a glance over my shoulder to see Jill hurrying off towards the high street. Why is she in such a rush? Did she get some news from Ollie? From the police? I would hope that if she’s found out something about Beatrice, she would let me know.
With an anxious tug at my chest, I realise I have no choice but to follow her. If it’s nothing, then it doesn’t matter, but if it’s something important then I need to know what it is. And right now I don’t trust anyone, including Jill, to tell me the truth about anything.
When she reaches the end of Bridge Street, she turns left, heading towards the priory. Maybe she’s going home. Maybe Laurel said something to upset Jill and she simply walked out on her, but that doesn’t explain the look of shock on her face while she was staring at her phone. No. She definitely received some news. Something that’s got her spooked.
I keep a good distance away, but I’m pretty sure Jill is too flustered to see me. And if she does, so what? I live in the same town, walk the same streets. If she spots me, I’ll act innocent and just say hi. She enters the priory grounds and makes her way through the ancient graveyard, the thousand-year-old grey stone building untroubled by our fleeting lives.
Jill rounds the corner and walks down the narrow strip of road beyond the graveyard. It’s darker down here beneath the press of the old buildings and the thickly leaved trees. I tense as Jill trips over her sandals and nearly goes flying. But she manages to steady herself on a lamp post. She stops for a moment, her hand on her chest, and I almost think about catching up to her to ask if she’s okay. But what if she chooses not to confide in me? What if she and Laurel really are working together? I have to keep following her to see where she’s going. To see if she actually might lead me to Beatrice.
My mind races forwards, thinking of possible scenarios that could have led to this. Maybe Jill was angry with me for not allowing her to spend time on her own with Beatrice. Maybe she enlisted Laurel’s help to steal our little girl away. What if Oliver knows and that’s why he’s been funny with me? My skin tingles with dread at the thought. My theories all sound outlandish, but I’m willing to entertain any possibility right now. Everything I’ve googled about children going missing seems to point to it nearly always being someone close to the child who’s responsible – either a friend, an acquaintance or a family member.
So I steel myself against going to Jill’s aid. Instead, I hang back and wait for her to recover her equilibrium. Still gripping her phone, she brings it up to stare at the screen before swiping it and bringing it to her ear. She waits and then starts speaking, but she’s too far away for me to hear what she’s saying. I take a few steps closer, but she’s already ended the call and has started walking again. Instead of turning right to head towards her house, she walks into the busy car park. I hope she didn’t leave her car here. My own car is all the way over in Bridge Street, so if she drives off, I’ll lose her.
I needn’t have worried. She strides along, her pace quickening once again as she aims for the pedestrian exit at the other end of the car park. And now she’s turning right again, walking past Place Mill art gallery towards the quay and along the wide concrete path by the River Stour. The quomps, a huge grassy area alongside the footpath, is busy with people enjoying the weather. But they’re all irrelevant, just a backdrop to what’s going on here with Jill. Something is telling me that she’s leading me towards something important. I feel it in my gut.
The brisk walk is making me sweat even more, and I’m so thirsty now that I’m almost tempted to ask a group of picnickers if they’ll sell me a bottle of water. I don’t, of course. There’s no time for that. I swallow and try to think about something other than my thirst and light-headedness.
Where is it exactly that Jill’s headed? She continues marching west, alongside the children’s splash park and on past the rowing club where they’re hauling boats out of the water and hosing them down on the shingle. As she passes the rowing club’s car park, she starts to slow her pace. Maybe she’s heading to the riverfront hotel? I guess she could be meeting someone there. She stops before she reaches it, bearing left towards the jetty and joining the short queue for the Wick Ferry, the little boat that takes foot passengers across the River Stour between Wick village and Christchurch.
I stop where I am, just past the rowing clubhouse. This is tricky. If I want to keep following Jill without being seen, I obviously can’t board the boat at the same time as she does. But if I wait for the next one, then I’ll lose her. There’s only one other option, and that’s to race ahead to Tuckton Bridge, cross the river that way and double back. The thought makes me dizzy with exhaustion. I don’t want to take my eye off Jill but need to get some energy from somewhere. I realise that I have a while as the Wick Ferry is still on the opposite bank.
I used to visit the rowing club with an ex-boyfriend when I was in my early twenties. I duck into the car park and head towards the clubhouse entrance, slipping in through the open door and puffing up the stairs. I almost cry with relief when I find that the bar is open.
The barman smiles. ‘What can I get you?’
‘An orange juice with ice, please, and do you have any chocolate?’
‘I can do you the orange juice, but you’ll have to get your chocolate from the machine.’ He nods to a shiny vending machine in the corner.
‘Amazing. Thanks so much.’
I pay for the juice and chug the whole glass in under thirty seconds. My body instantly perks up. I use the change to buy a Snickers bar which I cram into my mouth in huge bites, and a can of Tango and a bottle of water which I shove into my handbag. Fuelled up, I make my way back outside. I scan the ferry queue and see that Jill is still waiting there. My gamble paid off, so I start jogging towards Tuckton Bridge. The distance isn’t too far, but the juice and chocolate in my gullet are not exactly enjoying themselves. Plus, I’m not that fit, and the sun is still lasering down. Thank goodness for my baseball cap. I’m soon across the bridge and onto the opposite river bank, coming up behind the Wick Ferry just as it reaches the dock, disgorging its five passengers, one of whom is Jill.
Instead of continuing west towards Tuckton, Jill walks away from the river towards Wick village. It’s trickier to follow her here as the path is narrow and twisty, overhung with trees. I can’t lose her now. Not after making it this far. I catch my breath as I spot her again, heading back towards the river. She’s on the path, heading east this time. Where on earth is she going? This is more than strange. My heart hammers in my ears. Is she going to lead me to my daughter?
She keeps up the pace and I pray she doesn’t turn around because this riverbank is far quieter than the Christchurch side. I’ve only seen a couple of other people walk by. The smell of the river is stronger here too – a warm, loamy, earthy scent of water and reeds that makes me think of oily depths and white-eyed fish. I shudder. While Jill stays on the path, I stick close to the treeline, so that I can duck behind some foliage if I need to.
Suddenly she stops and shoots a glance behind her. Thankfully, the path is empty as I’m now skulking be
neath the trees. Seconds later, she looks down at her phone before sidling over to a ratty old boat that looks as though it’s been moored on this quiet bend in the river for decades. It’s cream and brown with a mossy canopy and low windows which hint at dark cabins below.
I edge closer along the bank, only a few feet away from Jill now. My heart is in my throat as I watch her approach the boat. Wait to see what she does next.
I daren’t allow myself to hope that Beatrice might be inside.
Thirty-Seven
JILL
Through the green-slimed canopy window, I can see that the cockpit area of the boat is empty. It looks abandoned, like no one has tended to it for years. That text message scared the life out of me. One minute I was sitting in the café listening to Laurel’s woes, the next, I’m hurrying along the riverbank to reach… this old boat, and whatever lies inside. I should rush in there and go down into the cabins, but I’m absolutely terrified at what I might find.
Whoever sent me that text did so to scare me. To taunt me. To lead me here. They sent me a photograph of this boat with the caption:
Want to know where Beatrice has been? Come right now. On the river, opposite the rowing club. Take the Wick Ferry. Don’t tell ANYONE. Make sure you come alone. From a friend.
Reading it sent actual shivers down my spine. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t see through the murky cabin windows and I have no idea who, if anyone, is inside. What if the abductor is down there waiting to do me harm? But my Bea could be down there, in any state. I need to be brave. Can I be brave? I wish I at least had some kind of weapon; a stick or a rock or something. Even if I did, being realistic, anyone could probably overpower me. I’ll just have to go in there and hope for the best.
My Little Girl Page 21