The Stolen Child

by Sanjida Kay

  I’m starting to breathe faster and faster. If Evie were here with me now, I’d buy her marshmallows. I would drown her in marshmallows. I’d let her eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I miss her so much. I’m starting to wonder whether there’s any point in anything any more. Why would I want to be in a world without my child? I’m leaning my forehead on the sharp bit of the trolley, the bit where you’re meant to hang your handbag, if you’d remembered to bring it. Tears and snot are dripping off my chin. I can see my scruffy Converse sticking out of my baggy jeans and I notice I’m wearing odd socks. One is stripy and the other has polka dots. I’m not even sure they’re both mine. It’s exactly the kind of thing that would have made Evie laugh – and that makes me cry even more because I just used the past tense. About my daughter.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. From my position leaning over the trolley handle, I can see this person’s shoes. They’re the comfy kind you get from specialist shops; flesh bulges between the gaps in the straps. The jeans she’s wearing are too pale and wide and short; there’s a gap where her ankle bone should be, her calves are encased in skin-coloured tights. I stand up. She’s square and wearing a maroon fleece with a zip at the front; her face is doughy.

  ‘I saw you on the news,’ she says. ‘Your little girl is missing, isn’t she?’

  I pull a damp tissue out of my pocket and wipe my face.

  ‘Yeah.’ She looks around the supermarket, as if checking for an audience. ‘I knew it was you. I said to myself, that’s the woman off the TV whose daughter was taken. You haven’t found her yet, have you, dear?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They said they’re still looking. Seven, isn’t she? Pretty little thing.

  Doesn’t look like you.’ I grit my teeth. ‘Well, I just wanted to say, we’re all praying for you. We’re praying you find your little girl.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, gripping the trolley, ready to push it away from her as fast as I can.

  ‘I read that book, the Madeleine McCann one? Most sex offenders dispose of the kid less than a couple of miles away from the site of the abduction. They haven’t found her body, have they? So either he’s hidden it well, or there’s still hope.’

  I lose it. In the middle of Tesco.

  ‘Evie is not dead! My daughter is not fucking dead!’ I scream at her.

  Her eyes widen and her mouth puckers. She’s affronted at my outburst. I manage to control myself enough not to yell obscenities at her.

  When I get home, Ollie takes my one paltry shopping bag from me and unpacks it. He places the items on the table: a box of Weetabix and a bottle of vodka. He doesn’t say a word.

  ‘I can’t find Hannah,’ I tell Audrey, the school secretary. ‘I’ve just checked her classroom and it’s still locked, and she hasn’t replied to my texts. I thought she’d be here by now.’

  Audrey had buzzed me in earlier, even though I don’t have a child with me. Tragedy can do that to people: make them react in strange ways around you. Now she looks harried and I wonder if it’s me. That is the other thing I’ve noticed: no one knows what to say, and, rather than say the wrong thing, they say nothing and look away.

  ‘She’s not here. She called in sick,’ Audrey says. ‘I’m trying to find a supply teacher.’

  For once, her fraught expression has nothing to do with me.

  ‘Oh, I hope she gets better soon. You haven’t seen this woman, have you?’ I show her the photograph Ollie printed out last night.

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t recognize her but it’s hard to tell. Is it…?’ She doesn’t know how to phrase it.

  ‘It could be nothing. She was in a car that pulled up outside the school on Friday night.’

  Audrey nods and gives me a look full of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could be. Can you give me Hannah’s address? There’s a chance she might know who it is – the woman could be a friend of one of the parents. She might have seen something.’

  Audrey shakes her head. ‘You know I can’t, Zoe.’ She looks as if she might cry at being put on the spot like this. She glances up and down the corridor, but no other parents have arrived yet. ‘You could ask someone who knows her well, though. Have you heard, Jack’s been released?’

  She gives me a wobbly smile. She’s not sure I’ll want to speak to Jack. I nod and thank her.

  ‘I’m going to go round and see him too,’ I say.

  When I’m in the car, I dial his number.

  He clears his throat before answering. ‘Zoe. Is there any news?’ His voice is hoarse, as if he hasn’t spoken since we talked. He sounds both fearful and hopeful.

  ‘No, but I have a photo of a woman who pulled up outside the school, around the time you said Evie left you.’

  ‘Want me to take a look? See if I recognize her?’

  He’s so eager to help. No matter what he does, though, he’s never going to forgive himself. And I’m not sure I ever will.

  ‘Yes. I want to show it to Hannah, too, but she’s off sick. Can you —’

  ‘I’ll text you her address.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be with you soon.’

  I wonder where Hannah lives. The cheaper houses are the old mill workers’ terraces, where Jack lives and my mum used to – but I doubt Hannah could afford one on a teaching assistant’s salary. She probably lives in a shared house, or lodges in one of the larger properties in Ilkley. I imagine her in one of the grand houses by the River Wharfe, in someone’s garret, overlooking the park and the tennis club. But then, there’s no reason she’d actually live here, is there? She could be in any of the surrounding small towns – Guisley, Menston, Otley, Burley – where I grew up.

  I check my watch. Ruby has arranged for us to do another statement to the press at two this afternoon. I’ll need to be back in time to wash and change into clean clothes, maybe even put matching socks on – and we have to drop Ben at Andy’s and then write and rehearse our statement with Ruby. I should probably go straight to Jack’s now – if there’s time I can see Hannah – otherwise I’ll have to wait until after the press release.

  I turn the key in the ignition and my phone rings. I think it’s going to be Jack but it’s Ruby.

  ‘Zoe? I’m outside your house. Where are you? Ollie said you’d gone out but he didn’t know where.’

  ‘Can I give you a call back?’

  ‘Listen, Zoe, it’s really important you stay at home. We need to know where you are at all times. Also, I’ve got the name of a therapist we use. A grief counsellor. We’ve found him really helpful in situations like these. Can you come back? We could —’

  I can’t breathe. Grief is not generic, I am not a case history, I want to scream at her.

  ‘I don’t need a fucking grief counsellor,’ I say. ‘Evie is not dead.’

  I hang up and check my text messages. There’re two from Ollie wanting to know where I am, and a missed call from home. The third one is from Jack – it’s Hannah’s address. At first, I’m confused. I think Ollie must have sent it too. I double-check. No, it’s definitely from Jack and he’s put ‘Hannah’s address’ at the start of the text in a teacher-like way. My heart lurches. I wind through the back streets onto Wells Road. In spite of the mild night, it’s growing colder by the minute. The damp Tarmac is developing a glassy sheen, where few people have driven, and the dew is turning to ice. The wind has picked up. A flock of gulls is scattered over the moor. A few dank leaves cling to the bare branches above my car; eddies of them swirl across the windscreen. I ease into first gear and inch up the steep road. There’s no way I can go to see Jack first now that I know where Hannah lives.

  I pull up outside one Panorama Drive. There are frost flowers blooming in the corners of the windows and the grass in the front lawn is sharp-edged with ice. Could Hannah White be the Hardgraves’ lodger? Ollie and I might have got the car registration wrong but it does seem like an odd coincidence. I’ll call Collier as
soon as I’ve spoken to them to see if they’ve found the real registration number. Either way, coincidence or not, I have a feeling Mr Hardgrave will not be pleased to see me again.

  I ring the bell. This time I hear light, quick footsteps across the wooden floor in the hall and the door opens. An elderly woman stands in front of me. Even though it’s early and she must be retired, she’s dressed with precision – in a tweed skirt, a pale, shiny blouse and a baby-pink cardigan. She has a silk printed scarf knotted around her throat, pearl earrings, and her hair is set in that strange, helmet-like way that some older women favour.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  She has an aristocratic accent – there’s no trace of Yorkshire in it.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a lodger, do you?’

  ‘What a strange question. No, we do not.’ She starts to shut the door, frowning with displeasure.

  ‘Wait!’ I put my hand out to stop her. ‘I’m looking for Hannah White. Her colleague told me she lived here.’

  She stops and looks me up and down. ‘Who might you be?’

  ‘I’m Zoe Morley. Hannah teaches my daughter —’

  ‘Oh.’ Her face changes. ‘Yes. I saw you in the paper. Your little girl has gone missing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were round here last night, asking my husband something about our car.’

  ‘Is Hannah here? It’s really important that I speak to her. This is the address Jack Mitchell gave me but I don’t know if it’s a mistake and maybe he’s missed a number out and she’s at another house on Panorama Drive. Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Have you tried the school? You said she taught your daughter.’

  I wince at the way she’s used the past tense to describe Evie. I try to keep my voice even.

  ‘Yes. They said she’s off sick today.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have given you her address.’

  ‘They didn’t. Jack gave it to me. He knows it’s crucial I speak to her. Hannah might be able to help us.’

  I’m growing increasingly desperate. She seems to know who Hannah is, so why is she being cagey with me?

  Mrs Hardgrave glances behind her and half closes the door.

  ‘Hannah is our daughter. She was living with us. We’ve got a self-contained flat so she’s been able to come and go as she pleases. It’s in the attic. She wanted more independence though. She moved out recently.’

  I hadn’t realized that Hannah is married. It seems odd that Mrs Hardgrave didn’t say ‘Hannah and her husband.’ She seems too young to be divorced. I guess she kept her husband’s name. I try to concentrate.

  ‘Can you please give me Hannah’s new address? It’s really important.’

  ‘If she’s ill, I’m not sure you should be disturbing her, but—’ she holds up one hand, the knuckles crooked, the veins raised, ‘I can see you want to speak to her. If you wait one moment, I’ll come with you. I’d like to see if she needs anything. Do you mind dropping me back here afterwards?’

  I shake my head. I’d say anything at this point. Mrs Hardgrave disappears inside and shuts the door behind her. I blow on my hands and stamp my feet. I look up at the house, at the peaked attic windows. Now I’m here in daylight, I can see a wrought-iron staircase that spirals from the top floor, round the back of the house. Hannah must have had a fantastic view of the moor from there. I wonder what would have made her give up a rent-free flat in such a stunning location when she would only have had minimal interaction with her parents.

  I wonder if this is going to lead anywhere or not. The woman in the car might not be connected to Evie at all. Even if she is, how likely is it that Hannah would recognize her? If the woman in the niqat knows Haris, I doubt Hannah would be any help since she’s doesn’t know Haris – she said she’d never heard of him when I told her whose preview I was going to when she babysat for us. But then there’s the car registration. Could Hannah have lent her parents’ car to a friend?

  Mrs Hardgrave returns, wearing a matching tweed jacket and carrying a casserole dish.

  ‘If she’s not well, she’s probably not looking after herself properly,’ she says, giving me a tight smile.

  On the way to the car, I fight the urge to take Mrs Hardgrave’s elbow since the pavement is so icy – she doesn’t look as if she’d welcome my assistance. Once she’s fastened her seat belt and tucked a tea towel round the dish, which she rests on her lap, she says, ‘Do you know Valley Drive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, head there and then I’ll direct you.’

  ‘I appreciate this,’ I say.

  I look back at the house one last time. I half expect Mr Hardgrave to be staring furiously out of the window at me. And that’s when I see it. The single shrub in the front garden, the one I’d seen the outline of last night. It’s a spindle tree. I grip the steering wheel and remember Collier’s words: it’s a poisonous plant that grows in practically every garden in Ilkley. Mrs Hardgrave doesn’t speak as we drive through town. I wonder if she hasn’t commiserated with me because, like everyone else, she can’t think of what to say.

  We turn into Valley Drive.

  ‘I didn’t know Hannah was married.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she says. Her voice is brittle.

  ‘White. She’s Hannah White.’

  ‘Oh. I see. She changed her name after she left home. She didn’t much care for Hardgrave.’ Her tone is dry and final. She angles her body away from me and stares out of the window. ‘Slow down. It’s left after the Wool Secretariat.’

  We pass a huge, glass-fronted building. Directly over the entrance is a massive sculpture in bronze turned green-gold with age. It’s of curly-horned sheep; the largest ram faces outwards, two stories high. The metal mural runs round the sides too, telling the story of wool, depicting the textile trade in a Soviet Socialist Realism style. The Wool Secretariat is what my mother called this building too, I think, even though it’s now owned by some chemical company. I turn left as instructed and left again. Weirdly, the street we are now in is Rombald’s View. The flats here are built of pale orange brick, with bars masquerading as verandas in front of the windows. There are no gardens, only a hedge and parking spaces. Over this soulless block looms the Secretariat, panel after panel of glass. It feels creepy, as if we are being spied on. Although I can’t see a single office worker, I can make out acres of strip lighting.

  ‘Park here,’ says Mrs Hardgrave, pointing. She hands me the casserole for a moment while she clicks open the gold clasp of her clutch and takes out a set of keys. ‘Hannah may be in bed,’ she says.

  If she’s trying to make me feel guilty, it doesn’t work. I don’t care how ill Hannah is – and she can’t possibly be too sick to take thirty seconds to look at a photo and answer my questions. I know she’ll want to help. She loves Evie.

  Mrs Hardgrave rings the bell but when no one answers the intercom, she lets us in. The stairs are covered in that hard-wearing brown carpet you find in municipal buildings. I hate the austere, modernism of the place, the miserliness of the size of the windows, the cookie-cutter layout of the building. I’m aware that I’m focusing on these trivial details to block out thoughts of Evie and to tamp down my hope that Hannah will know who this woman is. Or come up with reasons why the car was registered to the Hardgraves at Hannah’s old address… and who was in it.

  On the top floor, Mrs Hardgrave stops outside the door to Hannah’s flat and knocks crisply. When there’s no reply, she unlocks it.

  ‘She must be very ill,’ she says. ‘Wait here.’

  The door opens straight into a sitting room. I step inside and close it behind me.

  My phone rings in my pocket. Ollie. Another missed call from Ruby. I turn it to silent. There’s a small kitchen and a bathroom leading directly out of the living room. Mrs Hardgrave puts the casserole on the counter and walks to the far end, disappearing into what I’m guessing must be Hannah’s bedroom. I set the black and white photo of the woman in
the niqat on a coffee table and look around. The floor is covered with fake wood. Apart from the table, there’s a small TV and a brown sofa and armchair, an uplighter lamp in the corner and an Ikea bookcase with a lamp on it and a few books. There are net curtains hanging in front of the window, which looks out onto the street. To say it’s spartan, would be an understatement. There’s virtually nothing here that would give any indication of Hannah’s personality. It looks like a show home. The only thing missing is a vase of fake flowers.

  Mrs Hardgrave is frowning. She pulls the net curtain aside and looks out. ‘Her car’s not here. She must have popped out to the shops.’ Her shoes make virtually no sound as she goes back into the kitchen and puts the casserole in the fridge. ‘We might as well wait. I doubt she’ll be long. Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m going to call her,’ I say, taking out my phone. I can’t stay here.

  ‘She’s probably buying herself some Lemsip and paracetamol, poor darling. Leave it a few minutes, I’m sure she’ll be back soon. There’s no point ringing her if she’s driving.’

  I pivot on my heel. The only splashes of colour are the framed photographs on the white walls. I walk over to one. It’s a majestic-looking snow-capped mountain; the sky behind is a brilliant blue. It’s not a snap – it’s beautifully framed, floating on white board and with a white-waxed wooden frame. The artist has signed it. I look at the next one. It’s also impossibly exotic-looking. It’s of apricots drying in the sun. My heart starts to beat in my chest; it’s so loud I feel as if Mrs Hardgrave will be able to hear it. The one on the opposite wall is of a string of chillies, ruby-red, beginning to shrivel in the sun. They’re identical to the pictures Haris has in his house. They’re framed the same way, too, and signed by the artist. I remember thinking I’d never seen a name like it before; what was she called? It’s definitely the same person: Hajar Abyadh. They’re all pictures of the Hunza Valley in Pakistan, similar to the photographs Haris bought to flesh out the lie that he’d spent the last seven years in Shangri-La.