Stolen Girl

by Sarah A. Denzil

  ‘Well that’s fine then,’ I reply. ‘Because she isn’t innocent.’

  Chapter Eleven

  THE CHAPEL

  Before I remove my earphones, I pause to observe my distorted reflection on the black computer screen. The dark hair takes some getting used to. As does the short cut, though I prefer that when I’m gardening. It’s less hassle to maintain.

  Amy Perry! That’s who took my daughter. Find her!

  I wish you could hear the feistiness in her voice! She’s lost a little weight; you can see it in the face around the cheekbones. She doesn’t wear make-up and her eyes are wet with fresh tears. She hangs her head in a dejected way. This role has always suited her. She’s the mother to everyone.

  But she should know how to play this game, now, the amount of practice she’s had. What started with Aiden has happened to Gina. One might suspect that she’s rather careless with her children. Losing one is unfortunate, two is a pattern, and you have to wonder what someone like that has done to deserve all of these bad things. I personally believe in karma.

  Are some people born with victim stamped across their foreheads? If so, Emma has been marked. Perhaps it’s the soulful eyes or the downcast mouth. But I’m not sure I buy the victim act. She’s just getting what’s coming to her.

  It’s time to leave the library – where I come to use the internet – but first I send a few messages using the internet access. Must keep in contact.

  It’s almost 5 p.m. and I should get back to the church before everyone filters out of their workplaces and heads to their sad little houses. I want to get back to you. I want to see your face again.

  This time I decided to come to the library in the next town over. The village near the chapel is small, and I don’t want to be remembered by anyone. This place isn’t as tiny, but it’s still a middle-England town with a small population and I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks. But I need to go shopping.

  This surprise September heatwave continues, which gives me a good excuse to wear a straw hat and sunglasses. I tuck my earphones into my bag and head to the Sainsbury’s across the street.

  Amy Perry! That’s who took my daughter. Find her! Her voice is loud and clear in my mind. A smile plays on my lips. She’d walked into the room looking like a mess, but at the beginning she at least seemed in control. I enjoyed the moment when she suddenly snapped. Her accusations made her look like a crazy woman. Who could possibly take her seriously after that performance?

  She’s playing the game wrong again. The way Emma ensures everyone turns against her is a real gift of self-sabotage. I shake my head. She’s talented at making sure she’s completely alone.

  I grab a supermarket basket and casually stroll up and down the aisles, enjoying the cool air-conditioning. There’s a man in front of the cereal I want, so I wait patiently for him to move, smiling slightly as he realises he’s in the way and apologises. Afterwards I head to the milk aisle. There’s no fridge at the chapel, but this is a special occasion, don’t you think?

  Perhaps I can relax a little after the press conference. It’s clear that the police have no idea what they’re searching for or even where to begin. All Emma’s managed to achieve is the undermining of her own suspicions. That unhinged performance will be all anyone can talk about over the next few weeks.

  I add bottles of water, crisps, bread, butter, cheese and ham. Treats that I’m not used to buying anymore. But I need to get something for you, my little one, something that you’ll love. I stalk up and down the aisles, searching each one for the perfect present. All the while I finger the cash in my pocket to pay for it all. There’s no chip and pin for me anymore.

  Next to the birthday cards is a section for children’s toys. It’s a small selection but my eye is drawn to the red dragon toy. I pick one up and toss it into the basket. You’ll love it, sweet girl.

  Chapter Twelve

  EMMA

  THE VIOLENT FEMME is the headline on the Guardian’s website. It’s followed by the hypothetical question: Should Emma Price be prosecuted for inciting violence?

  At least now I’m the story and not Aiden. I gave the papers the fuel they wanted and directed attention away from my son.

  However, the sheer amount of vitriol still shocks me. My self-defence against Jake is brought up in every story. The photograph used is me with my mouth open, eyes wide, mid-diatribe. The picture that goes along with it is me being dragged away by DI Khatri.

  ‘It’s probably best not to read the comments,’ Tina suggests as she hovers around the room, tidying things that don’t need to be tidied. I get the distinct impression that I’m being watched. I remember it being the same with Denise, forever wondering what information she was filtering back to DCI Stevenson, before he became a friend to my family. And even now I wonder about the motives behind everything the police say to me, including Stevenson himself.

  I remember the paranoia well. I remember how it stoked the anger within, made me hate everyone around me. That fire is returning, and I don’t know whether to bask in the warmth of the flames or extinguish it before it gets out of control.

  I ignore Tina and scan the comments before reluctantly deciding that she’s right. There’s still some sympathy left for me, but there’s more disgust. Right-wing types applaud my ‘telling it like it is’ approach of naming and shaming the person I believe kidnapped my daughter. There are pledges to find Amy and force her to reveal Gina’s location. I conjure an image of a mob with their pitchforks, striding up to whatever hole Amy is hiding in, pulling her out. Then I shake my head and force the image away. Instead, I turn to Aiden, sitting quietly, scribbling in his notebook. Since the press conference he’s either using his phone or drawing. I try to discourage him from using his phone because he has access to the internet, and therefore to the horrible comments left by people who don’t know us. But he seems to be using it even more than before Gina went missing, and that worries me.

  We’ve barely spoken today and I’m paranoid he’s shutting me out. I don’t think he understands why I did what I did, but that’s OK. He doesn’t need to know that I wanted to distract the press. I saw the way they were looking at him and I couldn’t stop thinking about what Stevenson said, that Aiden could be a focus of this investigation. That he might be so damaged that he’d want to repeat what was done to him in the bunker. My stomach lurches just thinking about it.

  When he goes to use the bathroom, I pick up the notepad and flick through the drawings, ignoring Tina’s raised eyebrow. Almost all of them are of curls of hair. Gina’s curls. I close the pad and go back to checking the news sites.

  When Aiden returns, I finally address Tina. It’s Friday afternoon. There has been no news about Gina. We’ve slept for no longer than four hours at a time, both of us waking up from nightmares, or waking the other up with our nightmares.

  ‘We need to get out of this hotel room,’ I say. ‘We’re going to lose our minds in here.’

  ‘I’d advise against it, Ms Price,’ Tina says. ‘There are photographers everywhere.’

  ‘My son needs to –’

  ‘Mum, it’s OK,’ Aiden says calmly. ‘I don’t want to go out there with all those people watching me.’

  My eyes fill with tears, but I nod my head and don’t suggest it again. We stay in that stuffy room until the evening, when Stevenson and Khatri arrive. They walk in to find me pacing the length of the hotel room, jittery from too much caffeine. Going stir crazy.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ Khatri says. ‘But I would like to take your mobile phones. We’ll give you a few minutes to note down whatever numbers you need.’

  I stare at her, my jaw dropping open in disbelief. ‘Are you kidding? What if someone needs to get in touch with us urgently?’

  ‘You can buy new ones. There might be important evidence on the phones that can help us find Gina.’ She shrugs, then shoves her hands in her trouser pockets. Disinterested in my incredulity, still sour about the press conference.


  This is it, the beginning of what Stevenson warned us about. This feels like a subtle way of suggesting that Aiden is a suspect.

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ Stevenson adds. I clock the way Khatri turns to him with an unsmiling expression. The Metropolitan Police are sick of our contact getting in the way. Even with his high rank in the force, he’s beginning to outstay his welcome and I’m sure he knows that.

  Both Aiden and I spend a few minutes noting down important contacts. Rob has been calling me every morning on that phone and will worry if I don’t get in touch with him. My mind starts to drift to what might be embarrassing for police to see on my personal phone. My search history is all about human trafficking and paedophiles and what happens to children more than a day after they are abducted.

  We drop our phones into a plastic bag, along with a note for our passcodes.

  I had assumed that they wouldn’t suspect me. Would they? It’s never the mother; it’s usually the dad, or the uncle, or the older brother . . . Aiden is not that person. I know him. The idea is completely ridiculous to me. For one thing, he’d need help, and Aiden doesn’t know anyone. Where would Gina even be taken? Why would he do it in the middle of promotion for his new book? I exhale slowly, trying to calm my heart. No, Aiden is not that person, no matter who suspects he might be.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s all for now,’ she says.

  ‘Actually, I wanted to add something,’ Stevenson says. ‘DI Khatri might agree with me here. You’re both cooped up in this hotel room and the hotel is swarming with photographers. Whenever you’re in central London, it’s easy for them to follow you around. What if you were to go back to Bishoptown? Or even Manchester? DI Khatri can call you back down if there are any problems.’

  Khatri gives Stevenson a sharp look. ‘They’re important for the investigation. We may need to question them.’

  ‘You already have,’ he points out. ‘After Gina went missing. Ms Price has been extremely co-operative.’ He’s beginning to sound like a legal representative, but I’m glad for the suggestion. ‘I don’t believe either Ms Price or Mr Price are suspects. They were accounted for at the time of the kidnapping.’

  ‘They aren’t suspects, but –’

  ‘Well, then. I think you can agree that they can’t live like this. I can be your liaison officer in your own home if that’s acceptable for you, Emma. Bishoptown would be better for me, as I live close by.’

  Khatri offers Stevenson a wry smile. ‘It would certainly be unusual for a DCI to be the family liaison officer.’

  ‘I have a long professional connection to this case,’ he says, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s pulling rank.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she concedes.

  ‘I’m sure everyone at the Met can continue their excellent investigation. Aiden and Emma will only be a few hours away by train if you need them.’ His slow smile stretches from ear to ear. ‘I can be your first point of contact for any information.’

  ‘But what if you find Gina in London? I want to be here for her,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Emma, she might not be in London,’ Stevenson replies. ‘There’s no point being uncomfortable here just for that reason.’

  ‘What about our phones?’

  ‘You might as well buy new ones if you can,’ Khatri says, not smiling.

  At least this means getting away from DI Khatri, who I’m starting to think may want to use her presence at the hotel as intimidation.

  ‘What do you think, Aiden?’ I know he has conflicting feelings about Bishoptown. ‘Would you prefer to go to Manchester?’

  ‘I just want to go where you go,’ Aiden says. ‘And where Gina can find us.’

  ‘She can find us in the village,’ I say. ‘I know she can.’

  Neither of us mean physically. My four-year-old couldn’t walk to Bishoptown on her own. But it’s a place that she knows with people she knows. Rob, Sonya, Peter, Josie. Suddenly I ache for them.

  ‘All right,’ I say, turning back to the detectives. ‘Bishoptown it is. We’ll set off in the morning, shall we?’

  We agreed that Stevenson would drive my car up to Bishoptown for a couple of reasons. One being he came to London on the train, the other is because I don’t think Khatri would let us go alone, and the final reason is I’ve barely slept since Gina was taken. It’s a relief to be away from DI Khatri’s looming presence. We even have to check in with her when we get there. Despite her claim that neither of us are suspects, I don’t believe it. We were lucky to get out of that hotel room.

  There’s another reason why I agreed to this. My nightmare began in Bishoptown when Aiden was taken, and I have a feeling that it will end in the same place. The village connects me to Amy, from our school days to an adult friendship that turned sour. If Amy is going to contact us, it will be in Bishoptown. Amy isn’t Hugh. I don’t believe she has the same desire to harm a child. The reason she stole Gina is to get my attention and force me to face up to what I did when I drove her out of the village. She won’t hurt my girl; she’ll use my girl as bait. My girl. I close my eyes and can still smell her hair. That baby shampoo scent.

  Pulling myself back before I start to cry again, I try to go over the facts in my mind. What I can’t figure out is where Amy’s keeping Gina. It isn’t easy to hide a child away from the police. I think of all the lengths Hugh went to hide Aiden and my stomach roils. How is she living? How can there be no records of her renting or buying another house? The only thing I can think is that she’s somehow created another identity, and she’s using that to pay for wherever she’s living. I hope, deep down, that Amy has at least put a roof over my daughter’s head. That she’s feeding her, making sure she doesn’t get sick.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Stevenson asks.

  We’re currently stuck in traffic on the motorway. Aiden has drifted off in the back seat, his chin resting against his chest.

  ‘My head is all over the place,’ I admit.

  ‘Mine would be too.’

  ‘How old are your kids?’

  ‘Both teenagers now. Both girls.’

  ‘No bathroom time for you then?’

  He lets out a short laugh. ‘They’re as different as chalk and cheese. Jess can spend hours in the bathroom with all kinds of lotions and potions. Carrie would rather be outdoors walking, getting muddy.’

  ‘Carrie. I like that name,’ I say.

  ‘My wife chose it after her favourite TV show. I guess people don’t think of the film so much anymore.’

  I make a hmm sound, but my mind is wandering again. Speculating whether Amy can follow the news and how she’ll find out that we’ve moved back to Bishoptown. How long can she physically keep a child without someone noticing? Surely any neighbours would notice the sudden appearance of a four-year-old girl.

  ‘How certain are you that Amy Perry took your daughter?’ Stevenson asks. Finally, the cars start to move again. It’s now Saturday afternoon, sweltering, still suffocating inside the car despite the air-conditioning. Our early morning start turned into mid-morning by the time we’d managed to get organised.

  ‘Ninety percent.’

  ‘Not one hundred?’

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘But if I’m wrong, I don’t have another answer. Amy, to me, is the one person with the motive to take Gina. She hates me and Aiden. Maybe she’s always hated me, ever since school. Hugh, for some unknown reason, was the love of her life and Aiden took him away. I threatened her once, too. I held a knife to –’

  ‘OK, Emma. Stop right there before I have to arrest you.’

  I just shrug. ‘You won’t, though.’

  He lets out a long sigh.

  ‘She helped Hugh. I know that there was no evidence to connect her and him together, but I know she did. She admitted it to me.’

  ‘While you threatened her with a knife?’ he says.

  I shake my head in frustration. ‘You weren’t there. She did it. S
he faked that Facebook status about Hugh in Las Vegas. She even sent Aiden down to the river and told Hugh where he’d be. She set it all up. She would have done anything for that man, she was in love with him. And then she hogged the limelight when Aiden came back, giving interviews on This Morning for Christ’s sake. She has some sort of mental illness, I’m sure of it. Narcissism or something like that.’

  ‘If what you suspect about her and Hugh is right, then I agree it makes sense to believe Amy is the kidnapper,’ he says. ‘But where would she take Gina? How would she hide her?’

  I frown out of the car window, watching the yellowing grass fly by. ‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out.’

  ‘What you did at the press conference was both smart and stupid.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘At least she knows she has my attention now.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  EMMA

  Back in Bishoptown, in my old childhood home, I dump a sad, deflated plastic bag onto the sofa and watch dust flutter into the air. Sunlight illuminates the particles as they float away. Gina would run around trying to catch them if she was here. She’d love this place; how shabby and unusual it is. How many times have I brought her to this house since we moved away? She was a baby when we moved out and wouldn’t even remember living here. We’ve stopped overnight once or twice, but that isn’t the same. I remember that she liked the colourful walls and the photographs last time we were here.

  Stevenson has gone back to his house in York with his two teenage daughters and his wife. I have a picture of them in my mind: one in Wellington boots with short hair and a toothy smile, the other in a sundress, curled hair resting on her shoulders.

  I have another picture in my mind. One of Gina, alone, chained to the wall, iron bars in front of her. I’m picturing her in Aiden’s bunker, though I don’t want to. I can never know, not for sure, how terrible it was for Aiden in that bunker, but that doesn’t stop my brain from picturing it. The thought of Gina going through that is unbearable. It elicits pain – actual, physical pain.