Muscle memory kicks in, and I find myself turning into our driveway and trudging up the steps. I stand outside the front door for a moment while I locate the key. Before I have the opportunity to slot it into the lock, the door swings open. Oliver stands in front of me.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come home,’ he says.
‘I nearly didn’t.’
He steps back to give me room.
I walk past him. ‘I need a shower.’
‘Are you hungry? I’ll make food.’
I shrug. ‘There’s not a lot in the fridge.’ I realise that I never made it to the supermarket.
‘I picked up some bits earlier.’ Oliver’s trying to get me to engage, but I’m not biting.
‘Oh. Right.’ I continue on up the stairs, scowling like a sulky teenager but unable to help myself.
‘I’ll do us some pasta, okay?’ he calls after me.
I mumble something incoherent.
Once I’ve showered and changed, I begin to feel a little more human. At least Oliver’s home and sober for a change. I should give him a chance to make it up to me. I need him right now. We need each other. But I’m still so furious that I don’t know how to forgive him. I reluctantly head back downstairs to the delicious garlicky aroma of something cooking.
It’s already dark outside, the kitchen illuminated by the bright overhead lights. Oliver stands at the stove, steam swirling around him. The table is laid. There’s fresh, green salad in a bowl and a jug of iced water on the table.
Ollie turns around with a hesitant smile on his lips. ‘Do you feel any better? Want a glass of wine? I’m not going to drink in case we need to drive to the station.’
He’s trying to impress me. To win back my affection with his offer of a nice meal and staying sober. ‘No thanks. I want a clear head in case… of anything.’ I sit and pour myself a glass of water, ice cubes clinking into my glass.
‘Pasta’s ready. Shall I dish up?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ My words are clipped, emotionless.
He offers me black pepper and shaved parmesan. He’s really gone all out, but it’s going to take more than a bowl of pasta to erase his actions. Oliver sits and we start to eat. The food is good and I realise that I’m absolutely starving. I don’t think I’ve eaten a proper meal in days. But I also feel guilty for enjoying it. How can I enjoy anything while Beatrice is missing?
After a couple of minutes of us eating in silence, Oliver puts his fork down. ‘Claire, I need to explain something to you.’ He cracks his knuckles and cricks his neck from side to side like he’s a fighter about to get into the ring.
My food starts to stick in my throat. I sip some water to try to wash it down. ‘Explain what?’
‘Okay, so these past few days… I haven’t been completely honest with you.’ He pushes his dark-brown hair off his face and fixes me with those green eyes; the ones that usually make me forget why I’m mad at him. Not this time. He clears his throat. ‘I’ve been getting anonymous messages.’ He pauses. ‘From Beatrice’s abductor.’
I stare at him, trying to absorb what he’s telling me. ‘You’ve been what?’ The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, too bright. I get to my feet and then sit back down again.
‘Claire, I have absolutely hated leaving you on your own this week. It’s been making me sick to my stomach. But these messages said that I had to stay away from you and Mum and the house. And that if I didn’t stay away, they would harm Beatrice.’
‘What! Show me. Let me see these messages.’
Ollie comes around the table, drags a chair next to me and sits. He takes his phone from his pocket and scrolls back to the beginning of the messages which we read together in silence. They’re short and to the point, making it clear that Oliver has to do as they say or Beatrice will suffer. This explains everything! His disappearances, his lack of support, all his strange and out-of-character behaviour. I suddenly understand how truly awful this week must have been for my husband. How terrifying. I realise, with a rush of relief, that he hadn’t given up after all.
This time I get up and remain on my feet, pulling at my damp hair and stumbling over to the back door, throwing it wide open and gulping down breaths of the – only marginally – cooler night air. My mind is a jumble of emotions. Shock at this new information, relief that there’s some kind of explanation for Oliver’s behaviour, terror that our daughter is with the person sending these messages, but also a sharp surge of anger that Oliver hadn’t confided in me sooner. I turn back to face my husband who’s now standing at the table watching me carefully.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I cry. ‘Why did you let me think you’d given up? That you didn’t care?’
‘Because I wasn’t allowed to. You saw the messages. They said they’d know if I told you or the police. I don’t know how true that is, but I couldn’t risk it. I’m really sorry about getting drunk though – that was on me. I felt so trapped in the situation. Useless. When I saw what my behaviour was doing to you, I thought our marriage was going to fall apart as well as us losing Bea.’
‘How do you even know the messages are from the abductor? It could have been any nutcase sending them.’
‘I asked for proof.’ Oliver looks as if he’s about to break down. His voice hitches as he whispers, ‘They sent me a photo.’
‘Of Beatrice?’ I almost scream her name. The blood is whooshing in my ears and I stagger back to the table, sitting down heavily. Everything looks alien – the food, the glasses, my husband’s face. It’s all distorted and blurry.
‘Breathe, Claire.’ Oliver’s crouched by my side holding my hand. ‘Just breathe.’
‘What was the photo?’ I pant. ‘Don’t tell me if it’s bad. I can’t… I don’t…’
‘It’s not bad,’ Oliver soothes. ‘Bea was sitting on the grass holding out a copy of the Argus – the one with my mum on the front page.’
‘On the grass? Was there anything in the background? Show me the photo.’
Oliver pulls his phone from his pocket and spends a moment getting the message up on the screen. This one was sent to his WhatsApp account.
I take it from him greedily. Eager to see my baby. ‘Oh!’ There she is. Beatrice. She’s wearing an unfamiliar outfit – a green-and-white sundress. Her dark hair falls around her face in tangled waves. She’s staring at the camera unsmiling, but she doesn’t look scared either. There’s nothing around her but grass; nothing to identify the landscape. I breathe in the image of my daughter. Fill my lungs with the knowledge that she’s safe. Then I turn to snarl at my husband. ‘She’s alive! She’s alive and you didn’t tell me! How could you not tell me?’
He straightens and takes a step back, momentarily shocked by my outburst. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Do you know all the things I’ve been thinking? Do you know how terrified I’ve been? How I’ve been desperately trying not to imagine the worst? You could have stopped those fears in an instant!’
‘I know. Believe me, I know. But I couldn’t tell you. What if I had told you and they harmed her? I would never have forgiven myself. And you wouldn’t either. It was a terrible choice between letting you suffer and worry, and risking them harming our daughter. What would you have done, Claire? In my position?’
I set Ollie’s phone on the table, splay my fingers and close my eyes for a second, trying to halt my shuddering breaths.
Oliver continues, ‘I wanted to tell you so badly. In a way it was good that I wasn’t “allowed” to stay in the house, because if I had, I think I would have cracked and told you everything. While I was out all day, I was trying to figure out a way to identify the person responsible. Trying to work out how to find Beatrice, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t think straight.’
‘Do you think the photo’s real?’ I snatch up his phone again and swipe the screen to stare at the image of my daughter.
Oliver’s eyes widen. ‘Real? I didn’t… oh no, I didn’t even consider the possibility that…’ His words tr
ail off and he bends to look at the photo again. ‘It looks real enough.’
I scan the photo. That’s her body, the way she sits – the mole on her arm. And that’s definitely her face and hair. I snap my head around to stare at him. ‘Why are you telling me all this now, if you were so dead set against telling me before?’
My husband picks up his phone, takes a sip of water. ‘The police have got Laurel, right? She’s the one sending the anonymous texts. They said they’d brought her in for questioning. Surely it’s only a matter of time before she tells them where she’s moved Beatrice.’
‘That’s if it really is Laurel who’s behind this.’
‘What do you mean?’ Oliver’s eyes narrow. ‘Her scarf was there. Bea’s shoes. The sandwich wrappers. Pretty conclusive.’
‘I hope so. No, I’m sure it is.’
‘I haven’t received any new messages since she’s been taken to the station. I would normally have received one by now. I always got one in the morning and another in the evening.’
We sit in silence for a short while as my brain ratchets through all this new and shocking information, trying to take everything in.
Eventually, Oliver breaks the silence. ‘So do you see why I did it? Why I had to leave you alone each day?’
I nod. ‘I do. I really do.’ I should be happy that my husband wasn’t being the terrible, selfish bastard I had thought. That he was putting Bea’s safety before everything. But I’m so exhausted I can’t think straight. ‘Where is she, Oll? If the police have got Laurel, then where’s our daughter?’
‘They’ll find her,’ he replies, grim-faced. ‘Hopefully, they’ll bring her home this evening.’
I shake my head slowly. ‘It actually makes sense that it’s Laurel.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Ollie gets up and starts clearing away our half-eaten meal, scraping the congealed pasta into the bin.
‘Because she’s obviously still in love with you.’
Oliver stops and turns. ‘What? No she’s not.’ His face screws up in disbelief.
‘Yes she is. She still sees your mum every week, for a start. What’s that about?’
‘They’re friends.’
‘Right. Friends, because Jill is so on Laurel’s wavelength.’
Doubt creeps into Oliver’s voice. ‘She is, kind of.’
‘Okay, so if it’s not about you, then what’s her motive?’ I smear a stray blob of pasta sauce across the table with my fingertip.
‘Fine.’ Oliver’s shoulder’s sag.
‘I’m not saying it’s your fault, Oll. I’m just saying that it makes sense that it’s her. Think about it. The phone call to your mum at the fair, her in next door’s shed with Philip – that’s just weird. Do you think he’s been helping her?’
Oliver’s face darkens. ‘If he’s touched our daughter, I’ll kill him.’
My mind jumps to Ollie’s recent revelation. ‘We have to show the police the messages she sent you. And the photo of Bea.’ I scrape my chair back and get to my feet. ‘Come on, let’s go to the station. We can also find out what’s going on with Laurel and Philip at the same time. See if either of them has confessed yet.’
‘Okay. Do you think it’s safe to show them the messages?’ Oliver stands. ‘I mean, I know we’re pretty sure Laurel’s behind it, but if she isn’t…’
‘You’ve already told me.’
‘Yes, but I doubt they’ll find that out, it’s easier to keep that quiet. We can’t keep it quiet if we tell the police.’
‘Oh, Ollie, I don’t know…’ I’m suddenly starting to doubt my conviction that Laurel’s guilty. ‘I’d really like to show them the photo though, get them to check whether it’s real or fake.’
‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘let’s go to the station and see if they’ve managed to get a confession out of Laurel. If they have, then it won’t matter.’
‘Good idea.’ My phone buzzes and I see that it’s a voicemail from Stephen Lang replying to my message. I’d almost forgotten about him and my visit to the fair, but I guess that’s all irrelevant now. I put the phone to my ear and listen.
‘Uh, hello, Claire. I, uh, got your message. We can meet for a drink if you like. I can be free any time this evening. Uh, let me know. Thanks.’
I can’t deal with Lang right now. He’s obviously got a bit of a crush and has taken my message the wrong way.
‘Who was that?’ Oliver looks at me closely.
‘Just a client – Stephen Lang.’
‘Shall we go?’
‘Yep, coming. Just let me lock the back door. I’ll drive.’ As I fumble with the key, my nerves are jangling. But overriding everything is the tentative hope that I might be reunited with my daughter very soon.
Day Seven
I didn’t send Oliver a message last night or this morning. He thinks he’s off the hook. They all do.
They’re not.
Forty
JILL
I sit at Oliver and Claire’s kitchen table, sipping a tall glass of iced coffee as morning sunlight warms the room, and strangely I feel more a part of my family than I ever have before. When I arrived forty minutes ago, Ollie and Claire were both solicitous and thoughtful, asking how I am after yesterday when it had all been so overwhelming, discovering the boat and Bea’s sandals.
They tell me that, although they don’t know where Beatrice is, apparently she’s safe. The abductor sent them a photograph of her as proof that she’s unharmed. So, as we’re now 99 per cent sure that the abductor is Laurel, we’re hoping she’ll be found and brought home today. I can hardly dare to hope that this nightmare might all soon be a distant memory.
I still can’t believe that Laurel is behind it. She was my daughter-in-law and, even after she and Oliver split, I still thought of her as family. I now can’t help looking back at our whole relationship through this new horrific lens. That she could be capable of doing this, of putting my family through so much grief… it’s shocking. Could she really have set me up with that phone call at the fairground? Taken Beatrice? Pretended to be helping, when in reality she’s behind the whole thing?
Oliver keeps squeezing my shoulder and Claire has been genuinely kind, asking if I managed to get enough sleep last night, and telling me to stay for lunch. I’m glad to see that things seem better between them than they were yesterday; they’re easier with one another and with me. If my granddaughter were here safe and well, I would be truly happy right now.
‘Are you sure I can’t make you any breakfast, Mum?’ Oliver gets a knife out of the drawer as his toast pops out of the toaster.
‘I’m fine, darling. This coffee’s lovely, Claire.’ I’m trying to stay calm and act normally for the sake of Oliver and Claire, but inside my stomach churns with tense anticipation while we wait for news.
Claire brings her glass over to the table and sits next to me.
I shift in my seat and smooth my dress. ‘I can’t understand why the police still haven’t located Beatrice. Surely after questioning Laurel, they should know where she is.’
‘I know.’ Claire frowns. ‘I was sure we’d hear something last night. We even went to the station to see if there was any news, but they just sent us home saying they’d be in touch with any updates. The waiting’s painful. I feel sick with nerves. I don’t think I can stomach this coffee.’ She pushes it away and brings her hands up to her cheeks.
The doorbell rings and Claire and I both freeze and stare at one another.
‘I’ll get it.’
Oliver strides out of the kitchen while Claire and I rise from the table. We’re both wondering if this might be the good news we’re waiting for. I hear a woman’s voice. Claire leaves the kitchen but I stay where I am, hovering beside the table. They return to the kitchen seconds later in the company of a neat brunette in her thirties. The woman is wearing smartish grey trousers and a short-sleeve lemon blouse, small gold studs in her ears.
‘Mum, this is DS Gayle Hobart. I don’t think you’ve met. Gayle,
this is my mother, Jill Nolan.’
‘Hello, DS… Hobart,’ I say awkwardly, not sure how to address her.
We shake hands.
‘Hello, please call me Gayle.’
Claire edges back around the table. ‘Would you like a drink, Gayle? Is there any news?’
Gayle smiles. ‘I’ll have a tea please.’
‘I’ll make it,’ Oliver says to Claire. ‘You sit and finish your coffee.’
Claire touches his forearm and retakes her seat.
Gayle sits, encompassing us all in her gaze. ‘I’m here to update you, but before I do, I think it’s best to say up front there’s still no news on where Beatrice is.’
The room deflates. You can hear it, the sudden shrinking of sound, the shrivelling of hope.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gayle continues. ‘This doesn’t mean anything bad. It’s just that we’re not there yet. At least we know she’s out there somewhere unharmed if that photograph is anything to go by.’
‘So it’s a real photo?’ Oliver asks. ‘Not a fake?’
‘It’s real,’ Gayle confirms.
Oliver, Claire and I let out a collective sigh.
Gayle carries on. ‘Laurel Palmer and Philip Aintree are still answering questions, but they both deny having anything to do with Beatrice’s disappearance. Ms Palmer says she doesn’t know how her scarf ended up in the barge. Apparently, she misplaced it during the search party last week, which she says you can confirm, Jill.’ Gayle turns her attention solely onto me, and I feel heat flood my cheeks.
‘Oh. Well, she did mention something about misplacing her scarf, but I can’t confirm that she did. Only that she said she did, if that makes sense?’
Gayle gives me a non-committal nod. ‘Ms Palmer suggested that someone could have planted her scarf on the boat.’
‘What about the sandwich wrappers and water bottles?’ Claire asks. ‘Did you do a DNA test?’
Gayle tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘We tested for prints, and they do have both Ms Palmer’s and Beatrice’s fingerprints on them.’
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