The Runaway

by Linda Huber

  ‘Nothing here either. Meet you at home.’

  He jogged back, dread heavy in his gut. If Mia hadn’t returned from wherever she was, he would have to call the police. There were only so many places a kid could be, and they’d checked them all. Except the beach at the bottom of the cliff, said his head. Rob stumbled, then fled on with panic-driven legs.

  The police arrived, two uniformed officers. Rob rushed outside to meet them, Phoebe’s hand sliding in his, and they all stood on the gravel while he explained, his heart thundering behind his ribs. The police presence made it feel horribly real.

  ‘We’ll have a look in the house, if that’s all right?’

  Was there a choice? Rob shrugged, and the younger officer went inside. The older man asked about the holiday lets properties, then nodded to the Seatons’ house on the other side.

  ‘And your neighbour here?’

  ‘He left for work shortly before nine,’ said Rob.

  ‘Right. We’ll contact him. Please stay out here in the meantime, sir.’ The officer went back to his car, and Rob put an arm round Phoebe, who was crying quietly. It was all he could do to remain calm; Mia could be hurt or in danger and it was tearing his soul apart. And the unspeakable was there, heavy in the silence. What if she’d been taken? Rob clenched his teeth. Mia, come back, sweetheart. If she didn’t appear in the next half hour, he’d have to call his mother.

  More officers arrived, and two of them went to the holiday lets properties. Rob stood silently, aware that several holidaymakers were out gawking at the police activity, holding up phones, even, some of them. Vile rubberneckers. A few minutes later, Ed Seatons’ car drove down Coast Road and into his driveway. An officer went over to speak to him and they both disappeared into the house.

  As soon as they were allowed, Rob took Phoebe back inside. She was sheet-white and shaking.

  ‘This is my fault. I should have watched her.’

  Rob slumped onto a kitchen chair. ‘You can’t watch her every single second. She’s eight years old, and wherever she is, she left the house voluntarily.’ To go to the cliffs? More bile rose. How was it possible to be so afraid and so angry at the same time? Mia knew she shouldn’t leave the garden alone… his baby girl…

  The officer came back to report that Mia wasn’t in any of the houses on the street, and the coastguard helicopter would search the clifftop and beach. Rob leaned forward in his chair, both arms wrapped around his middle. When had he ever been this afraid?

  Chapter Twelve

  The Boy, aged sixteen

  Seconds passed with no sound in the cellar, then Eddie released his breath in a long sigh that turned to shuddering pants. Dry-mouthed, he stepped over his father’s body, dragged it further into the room, then closed the door on it. Reaction hit on the way upstairs and he dropped to his knees and crawled the last few steps.

  He was a murderer. Or was that only for people who’d meant to kill? He hadn’t, not really. But dead was dead; he couldn’t undo it. He lurched to his feet and trailed through to the kitchen where he leaned over the sink, stomach heaving. Nothing came out, though, and he drank some water and stumbled around the ground floor, cold hands clasping and unclasping, rubbing against each other, fumbling to his face and then away to clasp and unclasp again. His breath was the loudest sound in the house. At last he dropped to the sofa, but his legs shook uncontrollably as soon as he sat down, and he bent over his knees, fighting to win back control. Stop. Breathe. You’re okay. Long moments passed before he was able to stand up and walk to the back door.

  Warm sunshine hit him outside, and he flopped into a garden chair to think. Dad was dead and if anyone found out what he’d done, he’d spend most of his life in prison. What was he supposed to do now? A plan, he needed a plan, or no – he needed a solution. Think, think.

  Television dramas, what would happen there? He was in the middle of a real-life drama now… He could drop the body over the cliff. But it would be found, if the tide wasn’t right, and they might be able to see Dad had been… Ditch it further out to sea? He’d need to hire a boat, and that wouldn’t work unless he could get the body into some kind of wrapping. Someone might notice him going out in a boat with a heavy load and returning without it. No, a burial was his best bet. He wasn’t about to call the police and plead self-defence, anyway. He had his life back and he was bloody well going to keep it.

  Eddie sat motionless, a strange stillness taking over his mind and body as the sun tracked across the sky and neared the horizon. A cool breeze came up, and he shivered. He should eat something, carry on as if everything was normal and his father had simply left on a bit of business. You never knew when someone might come looking. He would decide about the body tomorrow.

  Restless sleep was a long time coming, but finally exhaustion took over. Eddie awoke to the sound of birdsong, and for half a second the world was unchanged. Then he shot out of bed, horror memories crashing into his head as he dived for the bathroom.

  Retching and spitting, he clung to the basin for dear life, then dashed water on his face and glared into the mirror. Right. This was where he had to cope, and first up, he had to look normal. He showered, his brain racing. The body would have to go today or it would start smelling. All he had to do was dig a grave, transport his father from cellar to garden, and make it all look as if nothing had happened.

  He stood at the back door, gaping out over the wilderness that no one had bothered with for years. Anything he did out there would be glaringly obvious to anyone who cared to look. But that couldn’t be helped; somehow, he’d have to minimise signs of the – the grave. The neighbours further along the street wouldn’t notice; they were away all month, but the couple in the next house were here. Both had full-time jobs, though, so he’d be safe if he had it done by five o’clock. Eddie walked up the garden, stamping as he went. The ground was rock hard; digging a grave wasn’t going to be easy.

  An hour’s work, and he was laughing hysterically at the thought of having this done by five o’clock. At this rate, it would be the week after next before the grave was ready. Even with his muscles, and shit, look at that sky. Fat raindrops were plopping down already. If anyone saw him digging in the rain, they’d take him straight to the nearest funny farm.

  He used the time to go to the garden centre for a better spade. Sitting on the bus was unnerving – how could anyone not notice that his world had turned inside out? Sweating, he jumped down as soon as the bus stopped, hurried into the garden centre, and grabbed a trolley. People were treating him like an ordinary shopper on an ordinary day; it was incomprehensible. He wandered around, collecting a spade, a fork, and – yes! Best idea ever – he would plant a tree. A tree for Mum, the perfect excuse for digging a hole in the garden. He did a smart U-turn into the outdoor section of the centre, and after a short discussion with the garden centre bloke he loaded a tall-stem apple tree and a couple of large plastic sacks of earth onto the trolley. Now to pay and get out of here. Thank God Mum had given him money before she left.

  ‘Do you deliver?’ He’d need a taxi if they didn’t.

  The guy at the till nodded. ‘Won’t be until this afternoon, though.’

  That would do. Eddie made the arrangements, grabbed the spade and fork, and headed home. The rain had softened the earth, which gave him an idea, and he set up the hose to trickle more water over his chosen site near the back. While the water was running, he went to check the cellar, heart in mouth.

  He stood on the stairs sniffing, adrenaline pulsing through him. No smell so far. This was going to work. He wouldn’t look at the body, not yet. Luck was on his side because the rain started again. The boy shut the hose off, and went to rummage through the cupboard where his father kept his folders and documents; he’d need to sort things out to make it look as if Dad had gone away. Bank accounts – wow. Dad was rich. Uneasiness crept through Eddie. No one saved a grand a month pulling pints at the Duck and Dog, so this must be down to the ‘bits of business’ his father did. Should he
phone the pub, say that Dad had gone away? He’d think about that. A metal box revealed a large stash of cash, and he took it up to his room. There was enough here to get him started on whatever he decided to do next. And Mum would help too. He’d call her as soon as the body was gone.

  The garden centre delivery arrived shortly after two, and the driver helped him manhandle the sacks of earth and the tree round to the back.

  ‘Good thinking,’ said the driver approvingly, nodding at the trickling hosepipe, which Eddie had turned on again when the rain went off. ‘Give the roots a good water once it’s in, too.’

  Left alone, Eddie set to work. The wet soil was heavy, but still more diggable than it had been earlier. Two hours later he had a good-sized hole ready, deeper than was needed for the tree. Okay. He was ready for the dangerous bit. Down to the cellar… Christ. This was grim. He grabbed a sheet of plastic Dad had used years ago when he was painting the kitchen, and spread it beside the body. Don’t look, don’t think, just get it done, boy. Roll him onto the plastic, quick, hide that gaping mouth and… shit! The body was stiff. Retching and coughing, Eddie pulled at his father’s body, then rolled it in the plastic sheet. At least you couldn’t see that face now. Up the stairs, a stiff, dead weight in his arms. And carefully out to the garden. Chuck it into the hole. Pull off the plastic and quick quick quick. He grabbed the sacks of earth and emptied them into the grave. And more earth from the pile. And don’t forget the bloody tree. He loosened the sackcloth around the root ball and eased out the roots like the garden centre guy had told him, then stuck it into the hole. And more earth. And more.

  Twenty minutes later he was watering the apple tree, neatly tied to its stake and all ready to live for years at the back of the garden. Job done.

  ‘Hullo there, son! You’ve been busy!’

  Eddie nearly died of shock as Stu appeared round the back of the house. He jammed the hose into position with the spade and dived across to meet Stu.

  ‘Yep. An apple tree for Mum, when she comes home. Did you want Dad? He’s not here.’ Oh yes, he was…

  ‘Thought I’d look in when I was passing. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.’

  ‘He’s gone away.’ The lie came more easily this time.

  ‘When’s he back, then?’

  ‘He’s not. He’s gone for good.’ Stop it, he was grinning like some stupid nervous monkey.

  ‘Gone for good? Why? And where to?’

  He hadn’t planned that far ahead. ‘I don’t know. He said he was sick of the whole set up here, and then this morning he was gone. He was talking about the Philippines last week; I guess he’s gone for a flight.’

  ‘Sly old bugger. He’ll be back, don’t worry. You coming to the gym this week?’

  ‘Nah. I’ll wait till Mum’s home, then I’ll be off for – London, or someplace.’

  Stu slapped his shoulder. ‘Reckon you deserve a break, lad. See you around.’

  Weariness soaked into Eddie as he cleared up in the garden and went inside to rifle through his father’s clothes. Should he get rid of some of these? It would back up the story about his father going away. But Mum would never notice what was gone and what wasn’t. A careful fire in the kitchen sink got rid of his father’s passport, and… He rinsed around the sink, then dried his hands, a smile spreading over his face. It was finished. And somehow, the world was a brighter place. He was free to do as he wanted and he would leave, tomorrow, get far away from here, make a new life, his own life, and he wouldn’t come back. Living in this house again would kill him.

  He popped a can of beer open and took it into the living room. Now to call Mum. They’d both been victims and they were both free now. But he’d still never forgive her. He lifted the receiver and dialled.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Eddie! Lovely to hear from you. What’s new at your end?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Quite a lot, actually…’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wednesday, 5th August

  Nicola rubbed her forehead with cold fingers – she’d taken time off from the search this morning to recover from her bug, but thankfully, she was much better today. And she wasn’t going to be wasting time; she had plenty of phone calls to catch up with. She poured some juice, then flopped down on the bed, phone in hand. Three texts were waiting to be answered. How’s it going? Come for a meal this week and fill us in? We need more flyers xx from Sue. Another meal offer came from a friend from Nicola’s old job in London, and the third was from Deb Shipton to say they were going away over the weekend but Harry Anderson the English teacher would support the kids with the social media accounts while she was gone. Nicola stared at the message. What would Kelly say if she knew her teachers were playing such a big part in the search?

  The phone rang in her hand; her mother, heck, she’d forgotten to call yesterday.

  ‘Mum – how are you?’ Mum’s hip was recovering well; she could walk without sticks now. It was one less thing to feel guilty about, and thank heavens, because Nicola didn’t have the strength to worry about anything other than Kelly.

  The voice in her ear was firm and upbeat. ‘Almost back to normal, darling. Nicky, your dad and I are coming to London for a day or two. We want to see you after such an upset at the weekend.’

  ‘Mum, I’m fine.’ She couldn’t tell them she was falling to pieces inside, and please God they didn’t see the extent of the horror images obliterating her soul. She had to function and to do that, she had to pack the hurt away.

  ‘We’ve booked the hotel already. We need to have a good catch-up and talk about how best we can help find Kelly, now I’m better.’

  The sheer optimism of this statement took Nicola’s breath away. Whisper, whisper, she had almost given up, hadn’t she?

  ‘When are you coming?’

  ‘This afternoon, darling.’

  She was being presented with a done deal, but – Nicola closed her eyes. How good it would be to see Mum and Dad. She chatted for several minutes to both parents, nursing the tiny core of warmth inside her. This visit was exactly what she needed, so she would damn well stop feeling sorry for herself and concentrate on the important stuff.

  She poured another glass of juice, then stood at the window and gazed down to the street below, where the odd passerby was ambling or striding along. She could do this. Get on with your search, woman.

  Nicola wandered along Frith Street, her rucksack slung over one shoulder for easy access, heading for a little square with a grassy patch and benches – somewhere to talk to people and have her sandwich, too. It was one of these muggy, uncomfortable days, summer in the city, a normal part of her life all the years she’d lived here but the search for Kelly had made it part of the challenge. She’d loved the summer holidays, in her old life. As well as going to St Ives they’d had family trips to Spain or France, Kelly playing on the beach or swimming in the hotel pool. Nicola with a book and Ed snoozing on a lounger. She was living someone else’s life now. The semi-bereaved mother.

  Most of the people in the square were tourists, happy holidaymakers with maps and brochures, having lunch in between hiking around Covent Garden Market and admiring the Houses of Parliament. So much to do on a visit to London. All the benches were full, but Nicola found a tree and sat on the ground, staring at the other square-users. A couple of them might be street people; she would go and speak to them later. She leaned against the tree, feeling the city buzz around her. Her city. Moving back here would be – steadying, that was the word. She would have her things here and a better home base. Would she have the strength to see it all through? But she had to, because Kelly came first. And she had to get her head round what was going on with Ed, too, because ending her marriage couldn’t affect the search for Kelly.

  A lukewarm slug from her water bottle washed down a precautionary paracetamol, and she pulled out today’s gourmet lunch. Egg mayo sandwiches and an apple, and she should eat them quickly and get on with it. Her parents were arriving at four, so
she’d have to get over to King’s Cross to meet them, a walk of – she tapped on her phone – forty-four minutes from here, but it took so much longer when you were looking up every alleyway for a skinny sixteen-year-old with a lost face. Or maybe Kelly didn’t consider she was lost now.

  At five to four Nicola was hurrying through King’s Cross station to the agreed meeting place, dodging round commuters and tourists. Her father was nervous in crowds and terrified they would miss Nicola on the platform.

  ‘Nicky, darling! Oh love, you’re so thin. Come here.’

  The moment she saw her parents Nicola burst into tears, and so did her mother. It was so much easier to talk on the phone, where you didn’t see the anguish in the other person’s eyes.

  She breathed in comfort, rubbing a shoulder of each parent as she straightened up from their group hug and took over the case her father was clutching. She couldn’t let herself fall into the easy pattern of being the child with her mum and dad. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Let’s take a taxi to your hotel and get you settled in.’ Even if Mum and Dad couldn’t do much to ‘help find Kelly’, they could share the pain, the disbelief.

  After coffee at the hotel Nicola left her parents to unpack, and hurried home for a shower. They were having dinner at an Italian restaurant on Canary Wharf – an impossibly lovely thing to do, her first proper restaurant since she’d come here and oh, Kelly loved eating out in London. Pack it away, Nicola.

  At the restaurant, Nicola’s mother reached across the table and grasped her daughter’s hand. ‘You need to eat more, Nicky. It must be exhausting, walking around all day. How do you organise the search?’

  Nicola gave them an edited outline of days spent going round homeless shelters, London streets, and looking under bridges, emphasising how helpful and concerned most people were. She wouldn’t tell them how she stood in the middle of streets and lanes, shouting her daughter’s name. She couldn’t tell them how some people – homeless and otherwise – shoved her out of the way, yelled at her to shut up, to go away and stop looking for her daughter, for Christ’s sake. She couldn’t tell them she’d sat on the ground and patted homeless dogs and talked for long minutes to people she’d have walked past a few months ago. These were the people who understood her search best of all, and oh, the shame. They were people.