‘We have reports coming in, as yet unconfirmed by police, that this whole operation is about a man called Karl Preston, wanted in connection with the inquiry into missing Cornish teenager Anna Ballard. Have you heard anything about that?’
‘Yes, actually. It’s what everyone is talking about on the street now. Apparently one of the people in the block recognised him from some media stuff. But if it’s the guy I’m thinking of, we know him as Mark. And he’s got really different hair. Much lighter now.’
‘So have you seen the official police pictures of Karl Preston?’
‘I have now on my phone, from all the stuff on social media, and it certainly looks like him. The face, I mean. Like I say, we know him here as Mark. He’s a builder, I think, working on one of the new developments.’
‘Do you know him personally? What can you tell us about him?’
‘Not much. He sort of keeps himself to himself. I think he lives with a woman. Bit younger. A blonde woman . . . Yeah. I’ve seen her on the stairs a couple of times but never spoken to her.’
I listen to this last exchange and feel the muscles in my stomach clench. Luke turns to me instantly, his eyes wide and unblinking. ‘You don’t think that could be Anna?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But why wouldn’t she run away? I mean if it’s Anna and he was holding her, she would run away, wouldn’t she? When he was at work.’
My heart is pumping in my chest, in my fingertips, in my neck, as if the blood is all of a sudden coursing too quickly around my body, and I realise in this moment that I have always assumed the worst, that Anna is dead. This new and unexpected possibility that she could still be alive is hard to process.
‘I need to sit down.’
‘I think we should phone Dad and get him to come home.’
‘But he’s so busy . . .’
Luke already has his phone out of his pocket and is scrolling through his contacts. ‘You need Dad here. He needs to come home.’
And then, as he holds the phone to his ear, apparently waiting for a reply, his expression is changing. ‘Jeez. Maybe she just ran off with this guy – Karl?’
‘What?’ This has not occurred to me and I feel myself frown, unable to make sense of all this. It is simply too much. The pieces of the puzzle won’t fit.
‘Well, maybe she isn’t missing at all. Maybe all this guilt this past year is a waste of time, Mum. Maybe the truth is she hated her life in Cornwall and just did a bunk.’
CHAPTER 32
THE FATHER
Henry is sitting in the back seat of the police car, staring at the familiar landmarks passing in a blur. The bus stop. The war memorial, which today has a posy of white flowers. Henry tries to think why. Is it some kind of commemoration? He can’t remember.
Next he watches a woman in a black mac pushing one of those ridiculous shopping trolleys. It is tartan, green and blue, and has a wobbly wheel that makes it veer to the right. Every now and again she has to swing the contraption to the left to correct this. Henry thinks she would be better off with bags.
In the front passenger seat, the detective sergeant is on the phone. Hearing just one side of the exchange is infuriating. There is clearly something significant going on, but so far he cannot work out what. Why did they suddenly let him go?
‘Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?’
At last the sergeant is off the phone and turns his body so that Henry can see the side of his face.
‘We can’t say too much at the moment, Mr Ballard, but there is a police operation under way in Spain in connection with the inquiry into your daughter’s disappearance.’
‘Spain? Why Spain? I don’t understand.’
‘OK. So we were hoping for a media blackout but things have moved on . . .’
‘What things?’ Jesus Christ.
‘A witness has identified Karl Preston as living and working in Spain, using a false identity. The witness apparently saw a rerun of the anniversary TV appeal. The local police moved in to arrest him on our behalf. The plan was for someone from our team to go over there. It can get a bit complicated, liaising with foreign forces. There are protocols. We have to tread carefully.’
‘So what’s happened? What is he saying about Anna?’
‘Like I say, things have moved on. He’s apparently resisting arrest. We have a live situation.’
‘Live situation? What the hell is that?’
‘It’s being covered on the news, Mr Ballard. Cathy is with your wife. You will be able to find out the latest when we get you home. To be honest, they probably know as much, if not more, than I do.’
‘And what about Anna? Is anyone saying anything about Anna?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ballard. I don’t know any more.’
At the farmhouse finally, Henry sees a black and slightly battered hatchback parked outside. It belongs to Tim or Paul, he can’t remember which, and Henry feels a wave of irritation. Bad enough that the family liaison officer is here. Cathy has been kind enough, but he never forgets that she is a policewoman. Whereas Barbara has been way too pally with her.
Henry feels his muscles tense as they sweep past the barn. He is remembering the scene with the shotgun when he was taken away. Jenny in tears. And God knows how Barbara will be with him now. What the hell is the truth, Henry? Where were you that night?
But mostly his mind is whirring with all these confusing new possibilities. Spain?
Only after they have stood on the doorstep for a minute or two does Henry realise that the police sergeant is expecting him to use his key. His bits and bobs were returned to him as they left the station. Henry fumbles in his pocket and finally finds it. It feels formal and odd. The front door is rarely closed, and he normally uses the side entrance through the boot room.
Once in the hall, the sergeant explains that he will speak briefly to the family liaison officer and then leave, though Henry must stay at home or advise the police if he is making a trip anywhere. Any new information will be filtered through Cathy.
‘Understood? We may well need to speak to you again very soon.’
Henry shrugs, and then they move into the sitting room, following the sound of the television and voices. All faces turn their way.
Jenny is sitting on the right-hand sofa with Tim at her side. She has her hand up to her mouth and is very pale.
Barbara is in the high-backed chair nearest the television, both her hands also up to her mouth, almost prayer-like, pressed hard against her lips. Cathy is sitting on a footstool alongside her, her hand on Barbara’s back.
On the television, a reporter is standing in front of what looks like a police cordon at the end of a narrow street. Bright blue sky . . .
‘We now have confirmation from the police that the man at the centre of this stand-off is believed to be Karl Preston – wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance of teenager Anna Ballard . . .’
‘What’s going on?’ Henry is looking at Barbara, but she doesn’t move her eyes from the television.
‘Shut up, Dad. We need to listen.’ Jenny leans further forward.
The reporter continues. ‘The man is understood to live on the second floor. Shots were fired this morning when police moved in to arrest him. Some residents have managed to leave the apartment block, but many are still inside and have been warned to keep out of sight. Police have cordoned off the whole area now and have apparently advised all those within the exclusion zone to stay indoors and away from windows until this situation is resolved . . .’
‘What a cock-up,’ Henry says finally. ‘First you let him do a runner and now you can’t even arrest him without a pantomime. Jesus Christ.’
‘Shut up, Dad. Turn it over again, Tim. There was more on the other side. That woman who thinks she saw Anna—’
‘Saw Anna? Someone’s seen Anna?’ Henry feels his heart thump, fluid in his throat suddenly – almost choking him.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, be quiet so we
can listen. Give me the remote.’ Jenny now takes the remote control from Tim and changes channels. Same scene – different reporter. In the meantime, Cathy stands and moves out into the hall with the sergeant. Henry watches them close the door, and is torn between listening to the television and trying to make out what they are whispering about.
Henry feels his heart pumping now as he listens to this new update from the different reporter . . .
‘With me now is one of the neighbours who was evacuated by police a little earlier – Amanda Jennings. Thank you for joining us, Amanda. I understand that you have seen this man, known locally as Mark, with a younger blonde woman?’
‘Yes, that’s right. They’ve been here about six months. He works as a builder. I haven’t seen her often. She sort of hides her face, keeps herself to herself.’
‘And have you seen the pictures of Anna Ballard? Do you think this woman could be her?’
The reporter is showing the witness her phone – presumably a photograph of Anna.
Henry holds his breath. There is absolute silence in the room now. One beat. Two. Three. The witness is examining the phone very carefully, tilting her head . . .
‘It’s Anna. He’s got Anna . . .’ Barbara’s voice is high with desperation, her hands now gripping each arm of her chair. ‘Oh my God, he’s got Anna.’
No one responds, but the two police officers are now back in the doorway, also watching and listening.
‘I couldn’t say. I’m not sure.’ The neighbour is shaking her head, still staring at the picture on the phone.
‘They should not be covering it like this,’ Cathy says from the doorway. ‘So irresponsible. The chances are he’s watching all this and it will just wind him up.’
‘Well they’re telling us more than you are,’ Henry spits. He can feel a terrible sickness in his stomach suddenly, thinking of his daughter.
You disgust me, Dad . . .
He looks from face to face as the television reporter hands back to the studio, promising an update shortly. But now, the rest of the day’s news . . .
Barbara first – he stares right at her but she will not look back at him. Does she know about the affair? Has Cathy told her? Then across to Jenny, who is crying silently, Tim’s arms around her shoulders.
Henry is suddenly in a bubble, not quite hearing properly. He is thinking of how sure he was until this very moment that his daughter is dead. It was terrible and too painful to imagine her gone at first, and yet paradoxically there was also this tinge of relief. That whatever horror had happened was over. That whatever someone had done to her was finished. In the past. That certainty had, in the strangest of ways, finally comforted him, because it was too unbearable to think of it being ongoing.
He looks back now at his other daughter, sitting with Tim. He is once more thinking of them as children together, fooling about in a paddling pool in the garden. Happy times. And yet, all grown up, the two boys had both swanned off instead of going to London to help look out for the girls. Never mind blaming Sarah, maybe none of this would have happened if the two chaps – Tim and Paul – had—
‘Tim. I think it’s probably time you went home.’
Tim looks bemused for a moment but then just stands up, running his right hand through his hair.
‘No. Sit down, Tim. I want him here. I invited him here.’ Jenny is glaring at Henry and he does not like her expression, which is something close to contempt.
‘This isn’t Apollo 13!’ Henry is surprised to hear himself roar this.
‘Don’t make jokes,’ Barbara spits. ‘How could you make a joke at a time like this?’
‘I didn’t say it as a joke. I mean it. This is sick. Like a peep show. Our daughter. Everyone watching . . .’
Tim is still standing, looking across at Henry, who now turns to Cathy. ‘How could the police let this happen? Like a reality TV show. It’s disgusting.’ And then his voice breaks and Henry is suddenly crying.
He is thinking that if she is still alive, then God knows what has happened this past year. Awful images in his head – so dark and so terrible that he is suddenly thumping at his head with the base of his palm as if this might make them stop. His little girl . . .
‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll make some sweet tea. It’s the shock.’ Cathy’s voice is infuriatingly calm.
‘I don’t want tea. I want everyone to go. You – Tim. This isn’t your business. I don’t want you here. Nor you.’ He is looking at Cathy.
‘Cathy has to be here, Henry.’ Barbara is speaking, her voice trembling. ‘And I agreed for Tim to come over. It’s what Jenny wants. This isn’t just about you, Henry.’
‘Well, maybe if Tim hadn’t disappeared on some jolly with his mates, we wouldn’t be here.’
There is a gasp from Tim, and from Jenny, too, but Henry doesn’t care. It’s true. When he first championed the trip to London, he thought that Tim and Paul were going to be chaperoning the girls. They had just finished A levels. Strong, strapping, decent boys getting ready for university. Barbara was never keen on the trip – wanted the girls to do something local and lower-key, but Henry had trusted the lads. By the time the boys backed out of the trip, it was too late for Henry to say no. Anna pleaded with him to talk her mother round. But the truth? There was no way Karl and Antony would have targeted Anna and Sarah if they hadn’t been alone on the train. Henry had made the wrong call . . .
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ballard.’ Tim is standing.
‘It’s not your fault, Tim. Don’t listen to him.’ Jenny is changing channels again and glancing from one parent to the other. ‘You need to all shut up and stop fighting. I’m sick of you two fighting. Anna could be there right now. In that flat in Spain, absolutely terrified, and all you want to do is wave guns around and shout at each other.’
Barbara now gets up and moves over to sit alongside Jenny to comfort her. She is stroking her hair and turning to Henry with a pleading expression.
‘It’s probably best I go, Jenny.’ Tim is feeling in his pocket for his keys.
‘No, Tim.’ Barbara reaches out for his arm. ‘Jenny wants you to stay.’
‘No. I’m sorry, Mr Ballard is right.’ Tim’s voice is shaking and he is looking at Henry. ‘I should have been there. It’s why I got mad at Sarah that time. Trying to pass the buck.’
‘Oh my God – Sarah.’ Jenny is suddenly taking her phone from her pocket, flipping between channels with her other hand, desperate for new information. ‘Has anyone been in touch with Sarah? This could tip her right over the edge again.’
CHAPTER 33
THE FRIEND
When she was small, Sarah was terribly afraid of the dark. She watched a film once in which an intruder hid under the bed. After that, she begged her mother to swap her bed with its creaky iron frame for a divan. No space underneath. But the bed was never changed and the young Sarah would lift the overhanging duvet every single night to check the shadows beneath.
She shared a room with Lily back then, and would often wake in the middle of the night, terrified after a bad dream. Sarah seemed to have the ability to recreate scary films scene for vivid scene, recasting herself in the role of star victim. No matter that she knew it could not be real; it felt real. But Lily could not sleep with the light on, and so there was a terrible stalemate. Sarah would whisper in the darkness, begging to have the lamp on. When a grunt said no way, she would next ask to be allowed to share Lily’s bed. Please, Lily. But even when her groggy sister finally gave in, Sarah would find that she was too afraid to put her feet on the floor in the darkness, in case an arm stretched out from under the bed.
‘Do you remember when you put a chair between our beds at night so that I could get across to yours from mine after a bad dream without touching the floor?’ Sarah is looking at her sister, now older and so much skinnier and frailer. It feels as if the tables have turned somehow, and she is supposed to be the stronger one . . .
‘Yeah. You were a right pain.’ Lily smooths her skirt and
smiles.
‘Was that before the really bad stuff started?’
‘Yeah. It was when I got my own room.’ Lily looks away to the window for a time and they sit in silence.
Sarah is thinking of the horrible paradox: how pleased she was to have her own room when they moved, so she could keep a little night light on, and how horrified she is now to realise the consequence of that for Lily.
She looks at her sister and thinks of their father . . .
Sarah’s phone vibrates on the table. She is worried it may be a message from the police.
‘It’ll be Mum again. Ignore it, Sarah.’
But it buzzes again. And again . . . and again.
Sarah picks up the phone, intending to switch it off completely, but the messages are not from their mother. All from different friends.
Put on the TV . . .
Have u seen the news . . .
Are you OK? . . .
OMG! Ring me . . .
‘We need to put the news on.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ As Sarah waits while Lily reaches to the lower shelf of the coffee table for the remote, she is thinking that maybe their mother has upped the ante, made things worse? That maybe she has convinced the police that Sarah is really missing and they are running some kind of appeal? But as Lily finds a rolling news channel, the picture on-screen is not of her.
Anna. There she is again. The picture from her Facebook page, standing in front of St Michael’s Mount, her beautiful blonde hair blown back in the wind.
‘Police have now confirmed that the armed man inside the flats is wanted in connection with the disappearance a year ago of teenager Anna Ballard,’ a reporter says.
‘Dear God, what’s going on?’ Lily keeps the remote in her hand, leaning forward.
‘I feel a bit sick.’ There is the taste of coffee back in Sarah’s mouth. Unpleasant now. Bile, too.
‘You want something? A bowl?’
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