by Holly Seddon
Still panting and coated with salty sweat, she fumbled her key in the door and jogged straight over to her laptop, flipping it open and clicking into the browser window.
For the first time in years she typed: friendsreunited.com.
A quick search on “Edenbridge Grammar School” brought up 2,047 members, but to see them, Alex had to register or log in. After deliberately stepping away from this kind of thing ages ago, signing up felt dangerous. She added herself to Amy’s school, in Amy’s year, and filled in scant information.
“Alex Dale” now nestled between Amy’s classmates, right where Amy Stevenson would have sat. Between the out-of-date biographies.
Referring back to her transcripts with Bob, Alex had jotted down some names: Jenny, Becky and Jake.
There were three Rebeccas (Harris, Limm and Simpson) but only one potential Jenny, Jennifer Cross. No Jake but a Jacob Arlington.
Alex’s tummy fluttered. Jennifer Cross and Jacob Arlington. That had to be Jenny and Jake, surely? Everyone signed up to Friends Reunited back in the day, it had to be them. She called Bob’s number, chewing the end of her pen.
“ ’Ello?”
“Hi, Bob, it’s Alex Dale here.”
“Oh.”
“I’m really sorry to trouble you, Bob, I just have a quick question.”
“All right, what’s the question?” Alex pictured him shuffling around, one hand in his overalls pocket.
“You mentioned Amy’s friends Jenny and Becky when we spoke. I just wondered if you could remember their surnames?”
“God, bloody hell…I don’t remember at all.”
“Oh that’s okay, don’t worry…perhaps if I read out the surnames I’ve found you could say if they sound familiar?”
“I s’pose so.”
“I’ll be really quick. The Jenny I’ve found is Jenny Cross—does that ring any bells?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“What about Becky Harris, Becky Simpson or Becky Limm?”
“Oh, yeah, I do remember Limm, Becky Limm, ’cos it’s a funny name, isn’t it.”
“Do you remember any other friends’ names, even vague memories?”
“No, not really, I’m afraid. Sorry, Alex.”
“Don’t be, that’s so helpful, thank you. Bob, there was one other thing actually, do you remember the last name of Amy’s boyfriend, Jake?”
“Yeah, I do,” Bob paused. “We used to take the mickey out of Amy ’cos we’d found a load of little signatures she’d done, testing out her name as if they was married. We used to call ’er Mrs. Arlington. As a joke, y’know. Jake Arlington, he was, poor sod.”
“That’s brilliant. Thanks Bob.”
Alex clicked on Jacob Arlington. Generic blue avatar, no photograph. “Living with Fiona in Kent. Sells software.”
Short and practical. But then the boys’ profiles were often far more functional and factual than the girls’.
Jacob Arlington still lived in Kent, at least up until the last time he updated his profile, in 2007.
Rebecca Limm’s profile was comparatively ebullient. “After Edenbridge, I went to MidKent College then Uni in London. Did English Lit and now work for a PR agency in Soho. Life is good!”
Jennifer Cross’s profile spoke of working as an estate agent in Surrey, living with her partner, expecting her first child.
“You must be our Jenny…” Alex muttered.
Opening her working document, Alex typed “Jacob ‘Jake’ Arlington” under the “Possible Suspects” heading. She knew she’d need to approach him. She’d have to try to interview him. But not until she knew more about the run-up to Amy’s abduction.
She sent a brief message to Jennifer Cross, asking if she had been friends with Amy and would consider answering a few respectful questions. She stressed that it was for a possible article with The Times, not a tabloid. Friend or not, she was in the same year at the same school and would surely remember who Amy was.
Who Amy is, Alex corrected herself.
Alex clicked on “Rebecca Limm” again. An English Literature graduate working in PR. Their paths could easily have crossed before.
Hi, Rebecca,
I hope you don’t mind me contacting you like this. I’m a freelance journalist and I recently became interested in Amy Stevenson’s story. I know you were friends with Amy at school and I don’t want to upset you, but I’m writing a piece for The Times and I’d love to know a little more about Amy. I was hoping you’d help by answering a couple of questions?
I’m quite local to Edenbridge (I went to school in Tunbridge Wells and live there again now) and I would like to assure you that I’m not trying to do anything disrespectful or sensational.
I hope you can help.
Kind regards,
Alex Dale
[email protected]
Tel: 07876 070866
Send.
Alex was about to switch off for the day at just gone noon. She gave her email inbox a final refresh. A Friends Reunited message from Rebecca Limm was waiting.
Hi, Alex,
I got your message through Friends Reunited. I don’t use it anymore, so the email was a bit of a bolt from the blue.
I was very good friends with Amy but what happened was a long time ago and I’ve tried to forget it. I don’t know if you’ve spoken to other people from school but I suspect they’ve all moved on as well.
I don’t see anyone from those days and my parents have moved to France, so I never go back to Edenbridge. I don’t know how much help I could be.
I would like to talk to you though. I always wanted to work in magazine journalism but I ended up in PR. I know this is crass, but I’m due to go on maternity leave soon. I really want to go freelance when my baby’s born and I want to move away from press releases and into content.
I do have press contacts but they all know me for my PR work and I need some help. If you’re willing to give me some pointers and a few introductions, then I’m willing to answer questions about Amy, on the record.
Let me know,
Becky x
Alex sent a hurried response, then switched off her phone.
A reply had been waiting when Alex switched her phone back on first thing. Perhaps eager to wrap things up before maternity leave, Becky had suggested coffee that day.
—
Becky Limm was the epitome of what some of Alex’s male colleagues had called “a PR chick.” Bubbly and smiley with wavy blond hair, crystal blue eyes and discreet determination. She was wearing a trouser suit that was perfectly tailored around an enormous bump.
They met in the Fleet River Bakery, a pretty little tearoom off the noise of High Holborn. They split a slice of hummingbird cake and drank lattes. A PR and a journalist meeting for coffee. The scene was so generic, so replicable across the city.
“She wanted to be a journalist too, you know, Amy did.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, well, a writer. We both did. She wanted to write about music and I wanted to write about fashion.” Becky smiled. “We used to write short stories and stuff, y’know, silly poems in letters. We’d give them to each other the next day. There was a bit of one-upmanship, but sometimes that’s a good thing.”
“Did you keep any of Amy’s letters?”
“No, I didn’t. After Amy was, you know, after she was found, I just got everything that had anything to do with her, stuck it in a box and took it round to her mum’s house.”
“What did her mum do with it?” Alex asked, trying not to let hope tickle her voice.
“I have no idea. After she died the house was sold, I remember my mum and dad talking about it. I suppose whoever bought the house just chucked it all.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Not now, no. There are plenty of people from back then that I don’t see. You just grow apart and move on, so I have to put Amy in that category in my head and not think about the reality.”
Becky sipped her decaf latt
e slowly.
“Look, the day they found Amy was just…I mean, it was unbearable. The whole time she was gone, I’d told myself that she’d run away. I was almost cross that she’d done it without me. I thought she was doing something amazing and brave. Like she’d run off to join the circus or something. She was always so fun and daring. I convinced myself that she was bigger than Edenbridge and bigger than school, that she’d simply gone out into the world to take it by storm.
“So when she was found,” Becky swallowed hard, “and I realized she hadn’t got away, I had to block it all out.” Becky wiped her eyes with a napkin. “Sorry, I’m so much more emotional now that I’m pregnant!”
Alex forced a smile.
“It was horrific. We were so young. It’s just too much to be confronted with at fifteen, you can’t process it. I had to try really hard not to get sucked in by that and lose sight of my own plans. I couldn’t let it mess with my head. I was as desperate to get out of Edenbridge as she was and it would have been disrespectful to Amy if I’d wrecked my own chances. I think she’d agree. I hope she would.”
“Did you get counseling at school?” Alex asked.
“God no, not at all. And at that age it’s amazing how quickly you move on, as awful as it sounds. We had this god-awful special assembly where the head teacher read passages from the Bible and the TV news cameras filmed us crying when we came out. That obviously wasn’t helpful.
“I used to go to see the school nurse when I got upset about it from time to time, but that’s it. She didn’t really know what to say or do either but the sick bay was somewhere quiet away from the others.
“I suppose in a way it helped that we had the summer holiday so soon after, and could get our crying done and then come back and start over. It’s not something you’re ever prepared for because who in their right mind would expect that to happen to a school friend?”
“What do you think Amy would be doing now if she hadn’t been attacked?”
“I’ve been thinking about that since you got in touch.” Becky picked her words carefully. “I know Amy’s worst fear was ending up like her mum. She loved her mum and dad to bits but their life was just so…meh. They lived in a tiny house, did crappy jobs and always had to worry about money. Amy didn’t want to be stuck in Edenbridge, working in a shop, she wanted to do all the stuff that her parents didn’t get the chance to do.
“She was Uni material, you know, she was smart. I don’t know if she would have been a writer in the end but I’m sure she would have done something creative. Maybe she’d have been a music PR.” Becky sniffed and smiled. “She loved music, she knew more about it than any of the boys. And she was always up for a laugh, up for a challenge. I don’t know about settling down, but, y’know, probably. She tended to have steady boyfriends, I think she was wired that way.”
Alex turned her notepad to a short list of names.
“Can I ask about Amy’s other friends?”
“Sure, though I really don’t see anyone these days.”
“I’m just trying to eliminate some names at this stage, anything you can add is helpful. Is Jennifer Cross the same Jenny that Amy was friends with?”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“Do you have any contact details for her?”
“Jenny? No, sorry. We grew apart years ago.”
“It must have been a horrible time for you both.”
“Yeah, it was. But we dealt with it differently, you know? She liked to wallow and talk about Amy constantly and that just made me feel worse.”
“And what about Amy’s boyfriend? I know Amy was going out with Jake Arlington, he must have been heartbroken?”
“Jake, yeah, I think he really struggled. When Amy was attacked it was close to the end of school term—well, you know that, don’t you? He came back really briefly after she was found but we never saw him again after that. I don’t blame him. There were rumors. Kids are horrible.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That he was somehow involved. Stupid things like she was pregnant and he’d beaten her up so she’d lose the baby. Did you know his brother went to the school too? He seemed like a sweet enough boy but there was even a rumor about him and Jake, y’know, hurting her together, and the brother left the school too.
“Every scenario that stupid little minds could dream up did the rounds. There were rumors that Jake had helped someone do it, that someone had helped him, that he was really violent because he knew karate or something like that,” Becky half laughed. “Just mean, unhelpful stuff. Totally untrue. And then by the next year, no one was talking about it.”
“You’re sure there was no truth to any of them?” Alex asked.
“God no! I mean, come on. Jake was cleared by police, and they’d never even had sex. She couldn’t have been pregnant. It would have been all over the papers if she was.”
Alex had prepared a list of section editors, many of whom she’d burned her own bridges with. She placed the list, with contact details and a few notes, on the table. Becky smiled.
“You must have plenty of contacts already,” Alex said.
“Yeah, but not in commercial mags. Besides, I’m an annoying PR chasing coverage, they don’t see me as a writer, right?”
Alex smiled. “Right.”
“I know it’s going to be tough to move across but I’m excited.”
“Good. Freelance life is a mixed bag though. I can go days without talking to anyone.”
“Oh I know. But I’ll have my husband home in the evenings, and then there’s the little one—once he can talk.”
“Of course.”
“Do you have any kids?” Becky asked, smiling and rubbing the side of her bump gently.
“So you know you’re having a boy, then?”
“Yes, I couldn’t wait to find out. We needed as much time as possible to work on names. Anyway, thanks so much for this, Alex. Do you have everything you need?” Becky stood up to go, glancing at her mobile.
“I think so. Can I call you if I think of any other questions?”
“Yeah, of course. Can I do the same?”
“Absolutely. Good luck with the baby.”
“Good luck with your story. And listen, if you do get to talk to Jenny Cross, be careful. She was always a little bit…I’m not sure how to put it. A bit much.”
—
The local train to Tunbridge Wells picked its way through the gray outskirts of London and out to the little brick stations of West Kent. As cottages started to replace factories and high-rises, Alex spread her things on the table in front of her.
Based on her conversation with Andy Bellamy, she’d made a list of bases to cover. She was awash with notes and decided she needed to approach it like any other feature: background, interviews, facts and figures. She’d just started to cobble together a mind map when the phone rang. Blocked number.
“Hello, Alex Dale.”
“Hey. Alex, it’s Matt.”
“Oh hello.”
“I just wanted to check you were okay, I felt bad about the other day.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, I know, but I have been worried. You called at a really bad time and caught me off guard, I know you get nervous at night and I was being really up my arse.”
“It’s fine, let’s not make it a big thing.”
“Just ’cos I can’t be there like I used to be doesn’t mean we can’t be civil, and I should have been civil to you.”
“I appreciate you calling, Matt, but I shouldn’t have rung you in the first place, especially at the weekend, especially when your fiancée’s pregnant and could do without your ex-wife harassing you!” Her eyes welled up, and her laugh gurgled out unconvincingly.
“Oh Alex…”
“I’m fine, I’m so sorry, it really is fine.”
“I honestly don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about at your place, but if it happens again, the local boys won’t mind coming round to c
heck. Just give them a call.”
“I will do. I was probably imagining it anyway.”
Outside the window, green fields and knotty hedges whipped in and out of view.
“Before I go, how are things going with your coma girl?”
Alex resisted the urge to snipe about “never finishing anything” and instead gave Matt the briefest overview.
“And Andy Bellamy, remember me mentioning him? From The Times? He’s interested in running it as a big feature if I can find a new angle.”
“That’s great news, sounds like you’re doing all the right stuff. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Matt was almost certainly just being polite and trying to wrap up an awkward conversation, but the moment was too tempting.
“Well…there is one thing you might be able to do for me.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I need to look for parallel cases. I’ve been thinking about the Rachel Nickell and Sandra Bissett thing, where police didn’t tie the two up for ages and Robert Napper was able to carry on under the radar.”
“That type of thing is very rare, Alex. Generally the police are on to any kind of similarity long before the public are aware of it.”
“Oh I know, you don’t need to defend the Almighty Force, I just thought with it being such a long time ago, maybe something could have happened recently that hadn’t been connected? Is there any easy way for you to check?”
A pause.
“I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”
“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it. And if you do find anything, just email it over. I won’t call you again, I promise.”
“Alex, it’s fine, just don’t pick first thing on a Saturday.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“Take care, Alex. Please look after yourself.”
“And you.”
Alex turned to look out the window. Her pale reflection appeared ghostlike over the little lambs racing the train.
—
At home, Alex’s Friends Reunited inbox offered up a stern rebuke from Jenny Cross.
“Damn right Amy was my friend and that’s exactly why I don’t want to talk to you. Contact me again and I’ll call the police.”