Reported Missing: A gripping psychological thriller with a breath-taking twist

by Sarah Wray

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Oh, he’s well, love.’ She sniffs and blows her nose lightly. ‘Busy at work like all you young people. He said he hadn’t heard from Chris either before he went missing. Said they organised a visit but Chris cancelled it and that’s the last time he talked to him.’

  I didn’t know that. I would have encouraged him to go down to London for the weekend. Or even better, invite friends up here.

  ‘He feels terrible, love; you should give him a ring. He kept saying how he should have kept in touch better. He feels awful, love.’

  Well, maybe he should have kept in touch better, I think, but don’t say.

  ‘Come on, Sandra, love. Don’t.’ I bet Geoff is stroking her hair. I hope so. I wish I could offer her more comfort.

  ‘Have you rung round all his friends again, Rebecca?’ asks Sandra.

  I take a pause to avoid snapping at her. She is fragile.

  ‘Sandra, I’ve already done all that. There’s nothing there – they don’t know anything. If they think of something, they’ll ring me. I think most of them already think I’m a bit nuts. There’s no point in me calling again.’

  ‘Well, we’re just waiting and waiting! It’s unbearable!’

  ‘I know, I do know. I’ll try to come and visit, Sandra. Maybe in a few weeks.’

  This seems to calm her a little.

  ‘Don’t you worry about us, love. You look after yourself, petal. And your mum. We’d love to see you, of course, though,’ says Geoff.

  ‘We’re on the same side, you know. I haven’t given up on Chris. I don’t intend to.’

  But the new allegation about Chris, what Detective Fisher said about the school, scratches at my brain and churns around in my stomach. Could I really not have seen something like that? Living in the same house? Sharing a bed? And yet, something is still telling me that it can’t be true. Not Chris. Maybe I’m just refusing to see.

  Nineteen

  Thursday, 12 November

  After Detective Fisher’s visit and talking to Sandra and Geoff, I know I won’t sleep, at least not yet. I go to Barnacles to catch Julie before she closes. The place is almost empty now and she has already started to clean up. She’s wiping down the bar.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack! You shouldn’t sneak up on someone my age.’

  ‘Sorry, Julie. Thought you’d seen me.’

  ‘You back in here again? We can’t get rid of you tonight, eh? You OK, love?’

  ‘Yeah, bit of er… bad news, that’s all.’

  ‘Your mum alright, is she?’

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. It’s not that.’

  She sits down on one of the bar stools and pauses her spraying and polishing. ‘I did hear a few people talking in here earlier about what’s been in the paper. Not seen it myself, mind.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s... I wasn’t expecting it. It’s still all a bit of a bad dream, to be honest.’

  ‘I bet. You just don’t need it, do you? Chin up, love. I’ve told you before. You’re not responsible for what he’s done. Or not done,’ she adds on. ‘My ex-husband was a complete twat as well – I mean, not a twat like that.’ She clears her throat. ‘But he was still a wanker and I was still devastated when we split up. But it gets better, is my point. It won’t feel like it right now but it will. “This too shall pass,” my old mum used to say.’

  I know she means well but I can’t face hearing this right now.

  ‘You wanting a drink, love?’

  ‘I was hoping to use the pool, if I could?’ I pat the rolled towel under my arm.

  She looks up at the clock. ‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it?’

  ‘I won’t be too noisy, I promise.’

  ‘Well, it’s not that. I mean, Christ, who are you going to wake up?’ She looks at the clock again. ‘I don’t know; it’s just a bit… Oh, balls to it; you’ve had a rough old day. If the lights are off when you’re done, stick these through the letter box, will you?’ She unhooks the keys from behind the bar and hands them to me.

  ‘Thanks, Julie. Really appreciate it.’

  I swim as many lengths as I can. I don’t even count; I just push myself as hard as possible until my chest burns.

  As soon as my breathing starts to level out again, I make myself do some more lengths – front crawl as fast and hard as I can. I feel almost sick when I come up for air again. My arms are tingling too – they should hurt tomorrow, but in a good way.

  I pull one of the floats into the pool – a pink foam fish. I try to stand on it; push the weight of the water down until the foam explodes up out of the water again. The muscles in my thighs pull and contract as I push it down.

  I’m starting to feel more tired now. Perhaps I’ll be able to get some sleep, but I doubt it. Pulling the top of my body onto the float, my legs dangling in the water, I rest my chin on my hands and let myself bob around, weightless in the silence.

  I must have fallen asleep, because I jump at a sound and the fish launches up into the air. A click against the glass like gravel. Another. Then a loud bang – the door. Cold air. It takes me a moment to understand what’s happening, but there’s someone at the door and someone darting along the poolside too. Two boys.

  ‘Hey. It’s closed to the public!’ I shout, and it has that weird, swimming-pool echo. Then their laughing echoes too.

  He’s wearing a woollen hat pulled down to his eyes but I recognise the boy on the poolside – he’s been at the bus shelter near the caravan park. The other has his hood up and he’s holding the door open.

  ‘Hey! You can’t be in here. It isn’t open to the public. You need to leave!’

  ‘You gonna make me from in there, are you?’

  I start to walk towards the stepladder to get out on the opposite side of the pool. A splash as my shoe is thrown in, then the other, the water blackening from the mud. The boy is gathering up my clothes. He throws my bra into the pool. It’s old and greying, chewing-gum white, floating on the surface. I think he’ll just throw them all in, but he’s heading towards the door now, with my towel too, his mate egging him on and laughing.

  ‘Stop! Please! Don’t… please!’ I know it’s futile and he’s already outside, gone.

  I’m freezing, teeth chattering as soon as I get out of the pool. I look around for something to cover myself with but there’s nothing. How can there not be something? I do a quick check in the changing rooms but they’re totally empty too.

  The icy blast hits my soaked skin as soon as I open the door; almost painful. And they’re standing outside – I can hear them laughing and talking low.

  The light from the pool casts a wide, white spotlight on the group, like we’re on a film set.

  ‘What do you think about your husband now? Not so innocent now, is he, that’s what they’re saying in the papers.’ I can’t see her yet but it’s Paige; I recognise the voice.

  I can hardly speak, I’m shivering so much. I’m still in nothing but my swimsuit – my ten-year-old swimming costume. Navy blue, round neck, luminous yellow and pink swooshes up the sides. It’s utilitarian, no support built in. It makes my breasts look squashed and low.

  ‘I said, what do you think about your precious husband now? Kayleigh ain’t the only one he went after. Dirty get!’

  ‘Nothing’s been confirmed or proved. You can’t believe everything that’s in the papers.’

  ‘You would say that. Why do you think everyone’s lying but your husband?’

  They’re standing around me now in a semicircle. One of the boys is looking me up and down. My arms are twisted, trying, failing to cover myself up. He is looking at my thighs and whispers something to Paige. She takes her phone out and points it at me. I hear the click. She’s taking a picture of me, then another, or is it a video?

  The flash goes off this time and I put my hands to my face. I think of Chris at the laptop, the photos of Ellen, the computer at the police station. The Watchers.

  My body is shaking quite violently no
w with the cold.

  ‘You a bit chilly?’ It’s Paige again. She holds out my towel to me. I am scared of stepping in something on the grass, and walking is painful on my feet, especially from the glass cut at Jeannie’s. I reach out for the towel but she throws it to someone else. I try again but they do the same. I don’t go to the next boy because I know the same thing will happen again.

  ‘Don’t you want it, then? You warm enough now?’

  I don’t answer. He is staring straight at my chest, making it obvious.

  He throws the towel towards me. I bend to pick it up and I hear the phone camera click again; this time right behind me. My backside; the cellulite on the back of my thighs. Paige is laughing and showing the picture to her friend.

  I reach down to snatch up my towel, but one of the boys runs in and kicks it just out of my reach. He picks it up and throws it to Kat.

  She doesn’t meet my eye. Head down, she comes over and hands it to me. I don’t dare to reach out for it at first but she doesn’t snatch it away. I grab it and wrap it around myself straight away. It’s damp and covered in mud and doesn’t make me any warmer at all.

  ‘You’re so fucking boring, Kat!’

  ‘Piss off and grow up,’ Kat replies, almost under her breath.

  ‘Maybe I’ll put these on the internet, shall I? Let someone perv over you like your husband did, shall I?’ Paige waggles the phone around.

  She looks at the screen. ‘Although not sure many people will be interested, to be honest.’

  Two of the boys gather round to get a better look at the pictures on the phone.

  ‘Oi! What is going on here?’

  It’s Julie. I can’t see her yet but her voice is getting closer.

  ‘Rebecca, love? You alright?’

  I can’t answer, can’t stop shaking from the cold.

  ‘Shit!’ one of the boys says.

  Julie’s out in the light now. She’s still in her miniskirt and flip-flops, but she has a long brown cardigan on, tied at the waist.

  ‘What you stood here like that for?’ She looks at me, then looks around, realising that they have my clothes.

  She clicks her fingers. ‘Hand them over. Now.’

  When she gets closer to Paige, Paige pretends to hand her the clothes but then puts her arm out to the side and drops them all.

  ‘Get off my caravan park, you nasty little shits. You should be bloody ashamed of yourselves. I don’t see how any of this helps your friend. Remember your friend, Kayleigh? You’d be better off out looking for her than terrorising other people. You hear me?’

  No one says anything. The boys and Kat look at the floor. Paige looks at Julie right in the eye but she doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Jack Wilsden, I know your mother as well. And I know where she drinks. I’ll be having words with her if you don’t all piss off. NOW!’

  She shouts on the ‘now’ and they all jump, me included.

  The group troops towards the exit. Paige lifts her phone up and waves it at me again.

  ‘You alright, love?’

  ‘I’m alright; just freezing.’

  ‘Honestly, they’re vicious little twats. Here, get in the bar, will you, and let’s get you sorted out. I’m freezing too, and I’ve got clothes on.’

  Twenty

  Thursday, 12 November

  Julie fished my stuff out of the pool and gave me a cup of tea and some dry clothes to put on. She even said I could stay with her for the night if I wanted, but I said no. I always assumed she lived on the caravan park but she told me she’s got a house in town. She sometimes ends up staying on the site if she finishes late, or if she’s ‘had a few’.

  I didn’t tell her about the previous attacks and she didn’t say anything either, so I assume she doesn’t know. I don’t want her to think I am bringing trouble to the caravan park. She might ask me to leave.

  I am sitting in the caravan with the crockery on the chair in front of the door again, but I know I’m not going to be able to sleep. And I still can’t warm up properly; I don’t even feel dry.

  I start clearing the pile of clothes off the bed and consider trying to sleep in there instead, but I get frustrated straight away. You can’t even stand head on at the side of the bed. You have to stand sideways because the bed takes up most of the room. And there’s a thin current of draught coming through the window. Now I remember why I don’t sleep in here. I used to wake up with my head like a block of ice; and that’s even before it got properly cold.

  I give up on sleep and decide to walk to see Mum. It’s not visiting time: it’s late, too late. But I want to see her, be with her. Looking behind me again, I double-check that I am not being followed. I’d hate them to know where Mum is.

  When I arrive at the nursing home, most of the rooms are in darkness, but the main living room is still brightly lit. Through the window, I see there are a couple of residents staring listlessly at the TV. The rest are probably in bed already or pottering around in their rooms.

  I don’t expect the front door to just open but it does. I look around for someone near reception but there’s no one, so I head down the corridor to Mum’s, past the TV room, the news blaring out. I run my nails loosely down the bottle-green Artexed walls. The darkness makes the corridor feel narrower, more oppressive. I am hoping to bump into Simon on the way, but to avoid everyone else. I start to walk slower near the staff room as I haven’t seen him yet, but there’s no one around at all.

  The place is eerily still and quiet, the TV just a distant murmur now. I imagine it when it was a hotel, full of families returning from a day at the beach or heading downstairs dressed up for an evening of entertainment in the bar.

  I press my ear to Mum’s door to listen out for the TV or for her still shuffling around. Nothing. I let myself in anyway. Aren’t they locked? Perhaps it isn’t safe to lock them in. A fire hazard.

  Will an alarm sound when I enter? Will she scream?

  But nothing happens. The click of the door, then silence. It’s completely dark in Mum’s room. It takes my eyes some time to adjust to it. The room is toasty like always, cosy and comforting after being freezing outside the pool. There’s a low hum and click from the radiator; the carriage clock ticks.

  As my eyes become accustomed, I can see the outline of the frill on Mum’s nighty. She looks peaceful. How much peace does she actually get, though? She stirs slightly. I want to crawl in with her, hold her and fall asleep, but I don’t want to wake her, so I settle down in her armchair and pull the checked, knitted blanket over me, and put a cushion under my head. I feel calmer, safer in here in the darkness and silence, with Mum. I can feel myself floating off.

  I’m violently yanked out of my almost-sleep when my phone rings. Mum stirs, but she doesn’t wake. I answer the phone quickly, but I don’t speak. Nor does the person on the other end of the line, yet again. I can just hear slow breathing, some shuffling around in the background. After about thirty seconds, the quiet of the dark room, the breathing, the line goes dead. Could it be Chris, trying to contact me?

  It’s light when I next wake and my neck is stiff. I am sweating under the blanket now so I wriggle out and stretch, trying not to make any noise so as not to wake Mum yet. Simon says she needs as much rest as she can get as she is often agitated, especially at night. This must have been a good night. Maybe she somehow sensed that I was here, and was comforted. Probably not. I seem to cause her distress these days.

  The room is covered in pictures of me and Dad – birthdays, nights out, day trips. There’s that wedding picture of me and Chris again. It has pride of place on the dressing table. The same picture they always used of me in the papers, in my wedding dress. Peterborough Town Hall. At first I wondered if it was a good thing, relatively speaking. Maybe people would be less likely to recognise me. I barely looked like myself that day. I wanted an up-do for my hair. It’s what everyone said would look best with the dress. I thought it looked vintage, but it ended up just looking old-fashioned, and t
he 1940s make-up aged me too.

  ‘You want to look like yourself, don’t you?’ the make-up artist had said. Stupid to book one really. Not me. But looking back at the photos, I didn’t really look like me. I didn’t think so anyway. I looked stiff and uncomfortable, the strapless dress a little too snug on the waist but too big at the top. It stuck out like armour when I sat down and I was yanking it up all day. Little rolls of fat that I didn’t even know were there under my arms, splurging over.

  The truth is I didn’t really enjoy my wedding day. I couldn’t admit it to myself at the time, and I could never admit it to anyone else. But I was uncomfortable in my skin; I hate to have my photo taken, and all day I had to smile and talk to aunts I didn’t know in garish skirt suits and ridiculous hats. I barely saw Chris – he was doing his own rounds so that we could get to see everyone. I was peeved at the night do when he loosened his tie and drank too much, treating it like a night out in town with his mates, I thought. But they looked happy too, genuinely jubilant on the dance floor, arms around each other, grey suits flecked with spots of colour from the disco lights.

  I had wanted a small wedding, but Sandra insisted that certain people had to be invited, because they’d invited Sandra and Geoff to their children’s weddings. It would look terrible if these people didn’t receive invitations, Sandra said. The planning went on and on, mushrooming. ‘You can’t not have a photographer. You can’t just have a buffet – it needs to be a proper sit-down meal. You have to get covers for the chairs…’ And Sandra and Geoff were paying for most of it, so we went along with their plans. Chris and I didn’t have any money and my parents didn’t have much.

  I tried to prod at the idea with friends. Maybe they’d felt the same, it was normal – we’d laugh and roll our eyes knowingly at the strain of it all. I can’t help but wonder now, if it was a warning sign even then. But even Jeannie toed the line, cooing, ‘Are you having the best day of your life? Treasure it!’