Stolen Girl

by Sarah A. Denzil

  It’s as I climb to the top of the ladder that the exhaustion hits me the hardest. Tired muscles complain and, in one panicky moment, I begin to feel slightly dizzy. But it passes, and I push myself up onto the floorboards in the attic. My fingers grope the air around me, and I swear under my breath. I should’ve thought about a torch. Then I remember my phone in my pocket and use the light from the screen to guide me. When I spot the dangling cord, I grasp it gratefully and a single bulb illuminates the room.

  With the new light, I can see that the space has been partially converted, with proper flooring and a little bit of furniture. There’s an old armchair and a table. Across from the old armchair is a wooden dining chair set up as though for two people to have a conversation. Who would want to spend time up here? I turn my body around, slowly taking everything in. I’m not sure whether the police have been up here, but there are some old books and photo albums scattered along the floorboards. Perhaps this is where Amy dumped her personal belongings. I pick up a photo album and thumb through it. Most of the photographs are of Amy with her aunt and uncle, but as I go back further, I find pictures of Amy with a young woman. A woman with faraway eyes, greasy hair and long, bony limbs. This must be Amy’s mother. Whoever she is, or was, she had some issues and definitely looks like a drug addict.

  There are some children’s toys here, too. Teddy bears, a porcelain doll with perfectly plaited hair that makes my body tingle all over. Amy’s face pops into my mind as she passed me the baby shower present on my last day of work four years ago, the day I received the phone call to say Aiden had been found. A perfect doll with a porcelain face.

  The air in the attic is cloying. I feel the dust settling in my nostrils. A trickle of sweat worms its way down between my shoulder blades. I sit in the chair and lean back, allowing my weight to sink into it. Why are there two chairs here? Why are there children’s toys here? If the attic was used for storage, I could understand it. But there aren’t any boxes or stacks of tat that you’d expect. Could Amy have been keeping Gina here? No, the police would have found her. And this doll is clearly old. This was Amy’s doll. This could be a place that Amy came as a child.

  There’s a heaviness building in my stomach. A world-weariness. Why would Amy be brought into a dusty attic as a child? There’s no real reason for her to use this space as an adult. Two chairs. Someone would be in here with her?

  The air catches in my throat and I move swiftly out of the chair and down the ladder. I can’t stand to be in this place a moment longer.

  It’s a few minutes after midday when I emerge from Amy’s sad old house, and the sun beats down overhead. This September heatwave is lasting too long, and everywhere I go, I see the frustrations of hot parents with irritable children. I get into the car and turn on the air-conditioning. After a few moments of leaning back into the headrest, a knock on the window startles me. I gaze wide-eyed out of the car to see Amy’s neighbour, a woman in her seventies, small as a bird, with gnarled knuckles and misty eyes, through the glass.

  I let down the window halfway.

  ‘Emma Price, isn’t it?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  ‘You broke in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well.’ She sighs and stares at Amy’s house. ‘I don’t blame you. I hope you get your daughter back.’

  ‘I heard she left about six months ago. Is that true?’ I ask.

  ‘Sounds about right, yes,’ she replies. ‘Not that she ever put the house up for sale. We thought it was strange leaving it empty like that.’

  ‘Was Amy doing anything suspicious before she left?’ I ask, deciding to take the opportunity to learn more.

  ‘Not that I could tell.’

  ‘All her furniture’s gone.’

  ‘Before she left she had people collecting bits every now and then. The dining room table and chairs. Television, too. I figured she was hard-up and selling everything off.’

  ‘Were they different people collecting the furniture each time?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she says. ‘And I saw the charity van once or twice, too.’

  ‘You haven’t seen Amy with any children?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, love, but no.’

  ‘But you don’t seem surprised about me suspecting her?’

  She works her tongue along her teeth, pausing before she answers, her gaze directed towards the window of the house. ‘I used to feel right sorry for her before. With that man yelling all the time.’

  ‘Her uncle?’

  ‘Yes. He was a nasty beggar. But then there was something a bit off about her, too. Amy, I mean. Did you know her mother left her here? Far as I know, the mother just never came back.’

  ‘You think Amy is so damaged she could do something awful?’

  ‘Saw her with that fella a couple of times. The one that hurt your boy.’

  ‘Hugh?’

  She nods. ‘I never liked him neither.’

  I give the woman my number and ask her to call me if she remembers anything else, or if she sees Amy. When I check my phone, I see a few missed calls from DCI Stevenson and decide to call back.

  ‘Emma, I’m sorry about that article, it’s really unfair. It was, um, a strange time for a makeover though?’

  I just sigh. ‘What article?’

  He explains but I find it hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. ‘Was there something you wanted?’ I don’t mean the words to sound cutting, but I can’t focus on anything other than Gina right now.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,’ he says, perturbed by my dismissive tone. ‘I just wanted to check you were all right.’

  ‘I’m OK. Not to be rude, but can you only call me when there’s news. Has there been any news?’

  ‘Not right now but we’re working on it.’

  I hang up and suck in a long, deep breath. It probably isn’t wise to hang around outside Amy’s house, even though it seems that the neighbours aren’t going to report the breaking and entering. At least someone is on my side.

  I’m about to put the car in gear and drive away when I hear another knock on the car window. This time, a boy, about fifteen, probably taller than me. He’s on a red bike, the handlebars angled towards the car like a twisted spine. I lower the window.

  ‘Are you Emma?’ he asks.

  He’s younger than I first thought. More like twelve or thirteen, with a voice that hasn’t broken yet. He leans back on his bicycle seat.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The lady asked me to give you this.’

  Puzzled, I reach out and take the white envelope from his hand. I tear it open and reach inside to find hair. Soft, honey-hued hair with a slight curl at the end.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  EMMA

  A lump rises from my belly to my heart, clotted and thick, hot and all-encompassing. My eyes fill with tears. The boy on the bike pedals away from the car, and, as I see the blurry shape of him leaving, I realise what he said. The lady asked me to give you this.

  I drop the envelope and the lock of hair into the seat and leap out of the car. ‘Wait,’ I shout. ‘Wait! Stop!’

  The boy, halfway down the street, presses his feet against the pavement and stops his bike. He waits for me to catch up, expression wary.

  ‘How old was the lady who gave you this letter?’

  ‘Like, your age, I guess.’

  My breath catches.

  I pull up a photo on my phone. ‘Is this her?’

  He frowns at the picture. ‘I don’t know, she had a hat.’

  It has to be Amy. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That you were friends and were playing a game or something. I dunno . . . I just delivered the note like she asked.’

  Without another word, I turn away from the boy and start running up the road. I run around the corner, down the next road and then back. I do the same on the other side, snaking around side streets. How did she leave so quickly? I press my hands into my eyes and let out a scream of frustration. F
uck you, Amy.

  On the way back to the car, the pleasant lady who answered my questions comes out of the house to check I’m OK. I tell her that I am, and then I get into the car, jamming the heel of my hand against the ignition. The brakes screech as I set off, and the boy on the bike stares with his jaw dropped open.

  For the next ten or fifteen minutes I drive around searching the roads. The white envelope sits on the passenger seat, the lock of hair on top. I long to press it to my skin.

  But it’s not good enough. It’s not my Ginny.

  After twenty minutes I have to admit to myself that she’s long gone. I know that Amy has a car because I heard her drive away after she delivered the first letter. I’d be better off going home and figuring out what to do next. I need to read the contents of this new letter. I leave, knowing I was within a few feet of my daughter.

  I press the envelope to my chest, take a moment to breathe and then climb out of the car. How long was I at Amy’s? An hour, two? I check my phone, it’s 12:45. Everything is going so fast. It wasn’t long ago that I was cutting off my hair and nailing it to a tree. Now I have a lock of Gina’s hair in return. That’s Amy telling me she’s received my offering.

  As soon as I’m in the kitchen I slide down to my knees and remain there as I lift the hair out of the envelope, dragging it against my cheek, feeling the softness. Then I take out the note. I gently place the hair inside the envelope so that I don’t lose any of the precious strands and put it by my legs. My breath is ragged and raw as I unfold the piece of paper in my hands and read.

  I’m glad you remembered, Emma.

  For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it came to this. But I am willing to hurt her if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do.

  Come to the tree. Alone. At 1 a.m.

  Set your alarm, Em.

  Don’t tell Rob.

  Don’t tell DCI Stevenson.

  Don’t tell Aiden.

  Come alone or I will send more pieces of your daughter to you.

  A familiar heat pulses through my body, starting with my toes and ending with a prickling scalp. It floods my veins, pushing away sadness and dejection. This is the fire that helped me save Aiden four years ago. The rage that kept me going. I close my eyes and breathe it in, soak myself in it. Rage and hatred. That’s the only way I’ll beat her. I can’t give up. I can’t.

  This is a trap. I know that only too well, but Amy has what I want, and I can’t get to what I want without playing her game. Grabbing the envelope, I climb to my feet and begin to pace the kitchen. I need to think this through. I need help. There are the private investigators but could they start in time to find her by 1 a.m? I put the envelope on the table and decide to try.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I make as many calls as I can. I call Rob and suggest that Aiden stays overnight. Rob persistently asks me if I’m OK, to the point where I hang up. I call three investigation firms, willing to send them a deposit if they can start now. They promise to call back if they have the resources to start straight away. I call every hotel and B&B on my list, practically begging them for any information they can give over the phone. Some waver, but most are reluctant. No one has seen anyone matching Amy and Gina’s description.

  In the end, I stare at Stevenson’s number on my phone. Can he help me? Is he willing to go above and beyond what a detective is supposed to do? What would he advise me?

  My feet track the length of the kitchen. I play with Gina’s hair between my fingers. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to feel this alone but I’m afraid for her. Would Amy kill Gina if she saw the police? I remember the uneasiness I felt about the ransom and how it was handled.

  At 5 p.m. I pour myself a cup of coffee and allow the caffeine to jangle my nerves. Images of Gina’s hand clasped by Amy’s keep flashing into my mind. I close my eyes and see the knife I held to Amy’s throat, only now it’s held to Gina’s throat and she’s slicing through the delicate flesh. I can’t bear it.

  I shake my head, channel the anger again, and call DCI Stevenson.

  ‘Emma, sorry about before –’

  ‘Will you help me?’

  He sighs. ‘You know I’m doing everything I can –’

  ‘Not the police. No one else. Just you.’

  His tone changes. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything unless you promise that it will be you and no one else.’

  I hear him exhale through his nose, and then I hear a rustling sound as though he’s walking. I imagine him stepping out of a public place to go somewhere more private.

  ‘Emma, listen to me. We believe Amy is in Bishoptown. There’ve been a couple of potential sightings in and around the village –’

  ‘I know she’s here,’ I reply. ‘Amy has been in contact with me.’

  ‘Emma, you have to tell me everything you know.’

  ‘My daughter’s life is in danger,’ I say.

  ‘I know that. We want to help you.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘All right. Me. I’ll help you alone if that’s what you want.’

  ‘I think you’re just placating me.’ I tap my fingers against the kitchen counter. ‘I want to be able to trust you after how much you helped me the night Jake died.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ he insists.

  ‘I don’t know if I can. You’re saying what I want to hear.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on, Emma. Please. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.’

  But I know exactly what he’ll do. He’ll file it. He’ll have a meeting about it and assemble a team. A plan will be made. I won’t be alone. And Amy will kill my child. There’s something else going on. I can see the shape of it but not the details. When I threatened her four years ago, I flicked whatever switch was keeping her together and now she’s running on the same emotions as me. Revenge. Hatred. Grief. I don’t know exactly, but I think it started in that attic many years ago.

  ‘I need to go.’ I hang up on him and place the phone on the table.

  I have lots time before I need to leave, so I eat, and then I nap for an hour. When I wake, I check the house for potential weapons.

  At 6:30 p.m. there’s a knock on the door. I open it and Stevenson walks past me into the house.

  ‘Whatever you’re doing, I’m doing it with you.’

  ‘You need to leave. Now.’ I gesture wildly to the open door. ‘She can’t . . .’

  ‘What?’ His gaze trails along the counter to the knife rack and sharpener. ‘Steak for dinner, is it?’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Come on, Emma, you can’t do this alone.’

  ‘I have to. She has my daughter.’ Stepping away from the door, but not closing it, I move to one of the chairs and grip the back of it with my fingers. Tension runs up my arms, shoulders, into my neck. ‘Just go. You’re making it worse.’

  ‘No. I’m going to help you.’

  I let out a long sigh and walk over to the door. With one, furtive glance outside, I close it and move back into the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  EMMA

  I go unarmed into the darkness. The heatwave is on the cusp of breaking, and a long overdue gusty wind whips up the leaves in the high branches of the oak. Beneath it, several sheep huddle for warmth. As they hurry away from me, the wind carries the sickly sour whiff of their fresh dung.

  I have an earpiece and a wire running down my chest. Stevenson is listening to everything. I’m sure that he can hear the sound of my heart hammering away. He is in the car, laying low on the backseat, which is parked in the same lay-by as before.

  In the hours leading up to 1 a.m. we discussed the meet in detail. Amy isn’t a professional criminal but she’s outsmarted us at every turn because of her clever planning.

  ‘She’s in control here,’ Stevenson had said. ‘Because she has Gina and we don’t know where Gina is.’

  In the end, he persuaded me to involve the police. There are three armed officers positioned around the field. Will she be able
to see us? Will she know? I’m on edge, consumed by questioning whether I did the right thing getting help, or whether I should’ve gone alone. My nerves are pulled tight, my throat feels strangled.

  I have a GPS tracker strapped around my wrist, tucked under the sleeve of my coat. If Amy takes me somewhere else, the police will be able to follow me there. Surely this will work. The reasoning is simple: Amy takes me to my daughter, the police find me, and they come and arrest Amy. But while I’m grateful to DCI Stevenson for arranging this, I’m also aware it means he lied to me when he told me it would just be him.

  And I hope I won’t have to pay for that lie.

  As I come a little closer to the tree, I can see there’s a note attached to the trunk, nailed in the same place where I nailed my hair. I take my phone out and take a photo of it before I take the note down. I’m not sure why I do this, I wasn’t asked to, but it seems important to document as much as I can.

  The note is inside a clear plastic wallet. I reach inside to take it out when I notice there are two sheets of paper. One of these says, FOR YOU. I read this one first.

  Come back. 3 a.m. Get rid of the police.

  I fold this and put it into my jeans pocket.

  The second one says:

  You broke the agreement. I will not meet you. Gina’s life is in your hands and you failed her.

  I stuff this one back into the plastic wallet and make my way back to Stevenson.

  ‘I have officers on the streets,’ he says as he drives my car back to the village. ‘She won’t get far. I promise you that. We’ll keep an eye on your security camera for you, too. Thanks for giving us access to the app.’

  But I’m silent, because inside my head, I’m thinking about 3 a.m. My heart is pounding. How is Amy doing this? How is she keeping out of the way of the police?

  ‘Emma, I know you’re disappointed. But you did the right thing by calling me. Please, keep calling us every time there’s a development because you can’t do this on your own.’