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

by Sarah Wray

  But, I truly did want to get married more than anything; to form our own two-person family. Maybe I was already worrying about what would happen when Mum and Dad slipped away from me, although I didn’t know it would be so soon. But as for the wedding – I just wanted it to be over; to get on with being married and together. But you’re not allowed to say that, are you?

  The papers said we didn’t look happy in the photos. But we were happy. They cherry-picked the worst ones, where we’re squinting at the sun, looking in opposite directions. And one where Chris is kissing me, yet it looks like I am pulling away, but I wasn’t. People put all their photos up on Facebook. I had meant to, but never got around to untagging the unflattering ones, updating my privacy settings. I have now, of course.

  I feel like a burglar, checking Mum’s jewellery box again, turning to check that the tinkling hasn’t disturbed her. The ring still isn’t there. On the dresser, there’s also a doily and a few of the ornaments from my parents’ old house: a small yellow ceramic dog that was my grandma’s, a little glass bear full of coloured sand, a money box shaped like a cottage. I shake it and it still has some coins inside. I can’t remember now why we chose these specific things to bring from the house. We gave everything else away. They don’t seem to add up to very much now, but it took so long to sort everything out, to decide what Mum should keep, what would fit in this little room. They’d lived in the house their whole married lives – forty years of knick-knacks, things saved ‘just in case’.

  In the dressing-table mirror, I see Mum stirring. She opens her eyes and it takes a few seconds for her to adjust and then notice me.

  I look like her. You can see it in the bone structure, the shape of the lips. Sometimes I fear that I will lose my mind too; maybe I already am. Mum was only sixty-four when it started. I remember reading on the internet that it can run in families, especially when it starts quite early.

  Her eyes dart around. I expect she’s searching her mind for the information on who I am and why I am there, unable to trust her instinct that something is different, possibly wrong. She is fidgeting, beginning to panic. I don’t want to make any sudden moves. Is it really so alarming to see such a familiar face here? Her own daughter. I suppose it is and I should be glad that she is at least able to recognise that something is different than usual. After all, I could be anyone.

  I walk towards her slowly so I don’t startle her any more. ‘It’s just me, Mum. Rebecca,’ I say, holding my hands ahead of me to placate her. I stroke her hair when I get close enough. ‘Sshhhhh, everything’s fine.’

  This seems to soothe her somewhat, although she still looks bewildered.

  I pull the drawer out from under the bed and take out one of her The Way We Were magazines. She enjoys looking at the pictures of the area back in the 1940s and ’50s. She seems to be more comfortable with the world in the pictures, less frightened by it.

  I think about going in search of a cup of tea for Mum, but decide against it. Officially, I shouldn’t be here for at least another few hours yet. I fetch a glass of water from the sink by the window instead. The sink is so small – child-sized – I can barely fit the glass into the bowl underneath the tap. The water splutters out in bursts, icy spray dampening my sleeve.

  Mum turns the pages carefully, touching each picture, fascinated. Does she still think this is the world now? The world outside this room?

  In one of the magazines we once came across a picture of Mum as a girl. She’d been the gala queen that year, and there she was. It didn’t seem real. It was strange that I recognised her so easily. The picture was in black and white but something about the face was unmistakable. She was in a lacy white dress, on a float, a crown of flowers in her hair. Sure enough, in the caption there was her name, Averil Richards. Some people in the photo were simply named as ‘unknown’.

  Do you know the people in this picture? Is it you? Get in touch.

  When Chris and I pointed it out to Mum and said it was her, she couldn’t grasp it and kept pointing at me, even when I showed her the name. I suppose it did look like me when I was younger too.

  ‘Chris,’ Mum suddenly says, dropping the magazine onto the duvet in front of her and sitting bolt upright. She pulls a copy of the Courier out from the drawer next to her bed, folded open at the article from yesterday, with Chris’s picture. I turn it face down again and she seems to lose her chain of thought, drifting back to the magazine.

  She’s come across a photo of Prospect Park in the magazine. We used to take her there on Sundays, when she was well enough to go out and about more often. We’d eat ice cream by the small lake and sometimes watch sprightly old men in white outfits playing bowls on the perfectly manicured lawn.

  ‘Chris,’ she points again, this time at the magazine. But she looks confused.

  ‘Yes, Chris used to take us there, didn’t he?’ I silently berate myself for the baby-talk voice that keeps slipping in.

  ‘Chris, here,’ she says, pointing emphatically as if to say ‘right here on this spot’. And she reaches for the newspaper again, but I snatch it away and put it out of view.

  ‘Yes, we used to come, didn’t we?’ That stupid baby-talk voice again. ‘Chris is busy with work at the minute, Mum, you know that. But he’ll come again soon.’

  I feel uneasy – about lying to Mum, about talking about Chris, about the fact she has even brought this up.

  But Mum is shaking her head furiously. ‘No, Chris came here!’

  I try to hide my sigh, not to sound snappy. ‘Yes, he comes to visit, doesn’t he? But he hasn’t been in a while because he’s been busy with work.’

  ‘No!’ Her voice is rising to a shout now. ‘He came here tomorrow!’ She is shaking her head again and clutching at her hair with exasperation. She starts to jiggle up and down in the bed. She gets like this when she can’t explain herself properly.

  ‘You mean when me and Chris came together on a Sunday and we took you out to the park for the day?’ I point at the magazine picture again, trying to distract her. ‘And then we brought you back here, didn’t we?’

  ‘No, not you.’ She shoos me away. ‘Only Chris. He was here tomorrow.’ She is getting angrier now, pointing backwards, over her head behind her when she says tomorrow. Her eyes are searching for something.

  Chris only ever came here with me. He wouldn’t have come alone, he found it far too awkward. Too upsetting seeing my mum like that, he said.

  Deep breaths. ‘Yesterday? Mum, he didn’t come yesterday.’ She nods at this. ‘He came a while ago, with me, and he will be back again soon. I’m sure. Please.’

  ‘He was here yesterday.’ She is emphatic, with a defiant look. She refuses to give in. ‘He took my ring.’ Her speech is much more decisive now.

  ‘No, Mum. You’re just getting confused. Please. You’re mixed up. Your ring is temporarily lost – God knows what you’ve done with it. And you’ve seen Chris in the paper. Please don’t say things like that about Chris!’ I can hear that I am shouting now too.

  ‘Where’s Kayleigh?’ Mum’s eyes dart side to side, panicked.

  I am holding both Mum’s hands down so that she can’t keep waving them around, jabbing her fingers.

  The door handle turns. It’s Simon.

  He is surprised, struggling to weigh up the situation. ‘Oh, well, hello. What’s going on in here? You’re early.’

  His tone is even, purposefully measured. He doesn’t sound annoyed or suspicious. You probably get good at that, working here. Confused residents, bereaved families.

  I glance at the clock. It’s 8 a.m.; visiting isn’t usually allowed until after 10.30.

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t sleep. I woke up early so I came in to see Mum.’ I don’t want to get Simon into trouble. Or draw attention to myself. I stand in front of the chair, and try to bundle the blanket away.

  Simon shoots a knowing look so I realise he has seen it, and he turns his attention to Mum.

  ‘Now then, Averil, shall we get you a cup of tea an
d some breakfast? You can have it in here with Rebecca today, if you’d like?’

  Mum gives a serene smile and nods, although I can’t tell if she knows what he is asking her. Is she pretending or is her train of thought still on Chris? The ring? Or just derailed altogether? I open the curtains and the window and Mum shields her eyes, pulling the covers up around her neck. She eyes me cautiously.

  Simon returns with tea, porridge and toast. I notice there are two bowls of porridge, more than enough toast for us all and three cups.

  ‘Haven’t had time for my own breakfast yet.’ He winks. ‘I’m Hank Marvin here.’

  We eat and drink in silence for a while, a strange picnic around Mum’s bed. Silence except for the chomping and slurping noises Mum’s making. She has food around her mouth and on her nighty.

  ‘She’s enjoying that then,’ I joke feebly.

  ‘We’ll soon clean you up after, won’t we, Averil?’ Simon says. ‘No harm done.’

  Mum shoots a huge smile at Simon. ‘Where’s my ring?’

  The smile drops from his face.

  ‘You took it,’ Mum says, jabbing the back of Simon’s hand, leaving a small indentation with her nail. ‘He took it,’ she whispers to me.

  Simon’s face flushes. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. I expect we will find it.’ His voice is breezy. ‘These things happen quite a lot. And she hasn’t been out anywhere. Obviously not alone, anyway. So it can’t have gone far, can it, Averil?’

  ‘She said Chris took it a minute ago.’

  He gives me a quizzical look. ‘Your Chris? Well, that’s a new one on me.’

  I clear my throat, unsure how this is going to go. ‘She said Chris was here. Recently. Like really recently. After-he-went-missing recently.’

  Simon looks startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think she was trying to say he was here yesterday.’

  Something flashes across his face. Irritation? Pity?

  Mum is turning her head between us like she’s watching a game of tennis.

  ‘What, is Chris back? I don’t understand, Rebecca?’

  ‘I don’t know... no, he isn’t back. Well, I don’t think so… but Mum is saying he was here yesterday… I think. So now I just don’t know. Is that possible?’

  ‘No, Rebecca. Surely you know it isn’t possible. Well, I mean... of course anything’s possible. But you know your mum says things. She isn’t well. And I mean, you haven’t quite been yourself, have you, Rebecca?’

  ‘Please stop saying my name like I am a child, will you?’

  Simon looks weary, resigned, and puts his toast down. Put off. I have broken the atmosphere. I shouldn’t have said anything.

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, Rebecca, he wasn’t here.’

  I can’t tell if he’s making a point of saying my name to show me he won’t be shouted down by me, or if the flicker on his face means he forgot.

  ‘You know that he can’t have been here. Apart from anything else…’ He stops there, clearly wishing he hadn’t drawn attention to the ‘anything else’. But he decides to finish his thought anyway, ‘I would have seen him; I’d have seen his name in the book.’

  ‘I don’t always sign the book,’ I say, petulant.

  ‘Well, you should. It’s a health and safety thing. It’s probably a bloody legal thing! We’d have seen him, Rebecca – you know he can’t have been here. I mean… you’d know if he was back, right? Someone would know. And most likely that would be you.’

  ‘Well, you’d hope, wouldn’t you? But, seriously, who does know anything anymore?’ I try the closed window, rattling it, jabbing at the locks and pushing at it. It’s stiff with paint and old wood. Eventually it comes loose. ‘Maybe he got in through here.’

  Simon’s jaw clenches. ‘Rebecca, seriously, what is going on? What is this about? Why would he come here now? And why the hell would he break in through a window? I think we’d notice that, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, you tell me. I’m beginning to wonder.’ I already regret saying that. ‘Has he ever been here? Without me?’

  ‘Well…’ He thinks for a while. ‘I don’t know?’ I can hear the exasperation in his voice. ‘Yes, I am pretty sure sometime in the summer, he was here, yes. I will look in the book.’

  I throw my hands down onto the bed, raising my voice, startling Mum. ‘Well, why have you never said anything about this?’

  ‘Why would I? He’s a relative, isn’t he? He’s allowed to come here, isn’t he? What’s wrong with that? I don’t see what you’re getting at.’

  I am exasperated now, clutching at the duvet, grinding my teeth. ‘Mum, when was he here? Tell Simon what you told me. MUM!’

  Tears wobble in Mum’s eyes and she looks to Simon for a clue on what she should do next. She begins to cry and pulls the covers up to hide her face.

  ‘Mum!’ I am shaking her now, grabbing her arm tight through the duvet. I am only shaking her lightly – it won’t hurt her – but I catch myself mid-action. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  ‘Rebecca!’ Simon speaks sharply as if to slap me out of it.

  He is standing up now, official. ‘I am sorry but you just cannot come here and upset your mother. Your mum isn’t equipped to deal with these situations.’

  I pull the duvet down from Mum’s face but she still tugs against it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’m sorry. Just forget it, yes? I’m sorry.’ My voice sounds pleading and desperate.

  Warily, she brings her hands back down onto the bed and looks sheepishly at me, waiting for the storm to pass.

  ‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ Simon says, shooting a smile at Mum. ‘Tensions are high all round at the moment. I understand why you’re upset, you know. But, as I say, you can’t come here doing this. And… well, you can’t take everything your mum says on face value. She’s very confused.’

  I am stroking Mum’s veiny hand, full of guilt, trying to calm her down.

  Simon’s voice has softened now. ‘Maybe you better go, Rebecca. It’s time to get you showered and dressed, isn’t it, Averil?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course.’

  I give Mum a long hug and kiss her on the top of the head. She looks happy enough when I turn to take a final look before I leave, raising her arms obediently to be undressed and washed, completely open, trusting.

  The idea of Chris being here alone, never mentioning it, pinballs in my mind. The ring is sitting somewhere, stupid and inanimate, glinting in the dark in a drawer or a pocket. Or sparkling in the outside world on someone else’s finger. Mum gets mixed up but she hasn’t said anything like that before. Accusing Simon too. My guts clench, a phantom pain where my instinct used to be, telling me what to do, showing me the way. Now the needle just spins and spins.

  A sense of unease sits like oil that won’t dissolve in my thoughts, polluting everything.

  Twenty-One

  Friday, 13 November

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Grange, please.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s probably otherwise engaged.’

  ‘Can you check?’

  Almost straight away she says, ‘She’s busy right now. Can I take a message?’

  Not enough time to really check. I can hear the receptionist typing.

  ‘I don’t want to leave a message, no. I’m Chris Harding’s wife. I’d like to speak to Mrs Grange.’

  A pause.

  ‘One moment. Hold the line, please.’

  A click, then silence.

  Eventually she comes back. ‘I’m putting you through now.’

  Being Chris’s wife at least opens some doors for me these days. I decided to ring the school where Chris used to work in London, after what Detective Fisher said the other day. I know I won’t get a straight answer from her.

  ‘Mrs Harding?’

  ‘It’s Pendle, actually. Ms Pendle.’

  ‘Oh, but I thought…’ She moves the phone away and shouts, ‘Ma
rie!’

  ‘I am Chris’s wife, though. Chris Harding’s wife.’

  She moves the phone away again. ‘Never mind, Marie. Close the door, would you?’

  I picture Marie, pressing her ear up to the door, listening in.

  ‘So, Ms… Pendle. What can I help you with?’ There’s a definite edge, a brittleness to her voice. If I was there in the room with her, she might have one finger on the panic button under the desk.

  I woke up agitated after I fell asleep again when I got back from Mum’s. My jaw was aching. I must have been grinding my teeth. I’d been going over the newspaper article, the new allegation, in my mind, trying to think of an answer, something that could redress the balance.

  ‘I want you to make a statement about Chris.’

  ‘A statement?’ The way she says it reminds me of Lady Bracknell’s ‘A handbag?’– arch, aghast at the idea.

  ‘I think if the school were to make a comment about Chris, in the media, it would help. It’s all very one-sided at the moment. These latest allegations. It’s no good from me, but someone impartial like you… it could help.’

  ‘Ms Pendle, I—’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be anything big, just that when he was at the school there were no issues. A clean record. That kind of thing.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Ms Pendle.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mrs Grange has never met me; I’m just a voice on the end of the line to her. Someone she wants to get rid of.

  ‘Because… well, we have taken professional advice on the matter and we’ve been advised not to make any comment on the issue. At all. We have to protect the reputation of the school, you’ll understand. It’s not appropriate for us to… to draw attention to ourselves any further.’

  ‘What about Chris’s reputation, Mrs Grange?’

  ‘Believe me, this pains me greatly, but the children and the school – and Kayleigh Jackson, frankly – are the matter at hand here, Ms Pendle.’