That Still andWhispering Place

by Kathy Shuker

  There were memories round every corner: police and villagers walking the village, scouring it for the missing girl, poking in every ditch and compost heap and shed; posters printed with Gilly’s photograph on every fence and every telegraph pole, begging for information; Gilly tumbling out of the gates of the little primary school at three o’clock, laughing and joking with the other children.

  Gilly had been a live-wire, always doing something, inquisitive, only still when she had a butterfly on her hand or when she was watching damselflies mating on a stem. Claire was certain it was the reason she had been taken. Gilly had a wonderful giggle and bright, inquisitive eyes and, though she hadn’t been exceptionally pretty, she had inherited her mother’s blonde curls. She was a child who drew attention. Some tourist, some visitor from a big city somewhere perhaps, had found her too tempting to resist. And she had an open, chatty personality. She was the sort of kid who’d talk to anyone, whatever warnings she’d been given to the contrary and she’d had plenty of those.

  Claire was surprised to find she could think about it now, certainly not without pain, but at least she could cope with it. Maybe she had learnt to manage the pain, had pushed it deeper down and cushioned it in some way. These last months it had become clear that she had to, for otherwise it would poison her life and, more importantly, it would poison Laura’s too.

  Somehow, she was settling. Around the village she bumped into people she had known in the past. Beattie Foster - who, with husband George, had been Claire and Neil’s neighbours - was now in her sixties and as smiling and friendly as Claire remembered her. And Greg Bingham, who had been one of Gilly’s teachers from the school, said how good it was to see her back. The atmosphere had lightened; the suspicion had dissipated. Or perhaps she didn’t look for it quite so much and didn’t see it in every innocent glance. Maybe her own feeling of guilt had made her assume everyone blamed her. Now she dared to feel a little triumphant: Neil didn’t think she could do this and she was proving him wrong.

  She even liked the job. Despite her intimidating manner, Penny was fair and she was straightforward. Yes, the work was boring some days but, glad to have found reliable help and knowing how quiet it was, Penny was relaxed about Claire closing the unit for a break now and then. So Claire tried learning more about the goods she was selling and about their history. And she visited the other units too, admiring the pots and the wood turner’s beautifully shaped cherry wood bowls, wondering if there was something that Laura might like for Christmas, unsure how much money she dared spend.

  She looked in on Adam Thomas, the artist, too. His pictures were bold multi-media works, images both of the river and the undulating countryside around the village and also further afield to the coast: shingly beaches, rugged cliffs and the harbours of Fowey, Polperro and Looe. Imaginative and emotive paintings with unexpected colours, some were bright and cheerful, others were sombre, heavy and doleful. She wasn’t sure if she liked them or not. And Adam was as moody as the pictures. The first time she went in he was friendly, pulled the earphones out of his ears, apologising for ignoring her. The second time he looked at her, barely nodded and sullenly carried on working.

  ‘It’s his love-life,’ Penny confided when she mentioned it. ‘Stormy, I hear.’

  A stormy love-life was something Claire understood.

  As the month neared its end, Penny went on a trip to France, leaving Claire to look after the unit alone for five days. She also left behind a large cardboard box to sort through, unsold items from the village fête’s bric-à-brac stall which had only just been handed over.

  ‘There won’t be anything I can sell,’ Penny complained bitterly. ‘Most of the stuff they’re given is no good to me. Megan even suggested I make a donation to the fête funds in return for taking them off her hands. Cheek of the woman. Do you know Megan Davies - chair of the village fête committee? There’s no talking to her.’ Penny sighed heavily. ‘Still, you’d better take a look.’

  So on the Monday morning, Claire made herself coffee, hefted the box onto a small oak table and started picking through its contents. She pulled out a couple of worn soft toys, a single, silver-plated candlestick, a jigsaw of a steam train with 3 pieces missing scribbled on the box, a milk jug and sugar bowl in a garish printed design and a teapot with a chipped spout. Beneath she found an embroidered tray cloth with some broken stitches, a pair of plated sugar tongs and a pile of mismatched modern dinner plates. Nothing so far that Penny would be likely to sell. But then she pulled out a couple of Beatrix Potter books which, though not first editions, still had their dust jackets and were fully intact. And there was a hardback copy of The Old Curiosity Shop too and a couple of Agatha Christie paperbacks. She put them to one side.

  Further down was a pretty lace table runner, another tray cloth and, at the bottom, a motley selection of jewellery and ornaments. Claire sat back, stretched her back and finished her coffee, then slowly sorted through them. The ornaments were mostly modern and much of the jewellery was too. There were a couple of earrings without their pairs and a brightly-coloured bead necklace with a broken clasp. An old brooch with a silver setting had lost two of its stones. But there were a few nice pieces which were worth salvaging.

  Finally, in a paper bag in a corner of the box, someone had thrown together yet more ropes of beads and pendants and they had become tangled together. As she emptied them out onto the table a couple of brooches fell out. And there was a hair slide too, a chunky little plastic child’s clip in a rich aquamarine hue, set with shells and a few cheap sparkling stones.

  Claire stared at it. Something clutched at her stomach and she felt sick. With a shaking hand she cautiously touched it as if it might burn her then gingerly picked it up, turning it over and back again, dimly aware that her heart was hammering in her chest.

  This was the hair slide Gilly had been wearing the day she disappeared. She was sure it was; absolutely certain. Again she turned it over, her brain almost numb with the implication. Her little girl was still here then, after all. In Bohenna. Someone must have known all along. Someone - maybe someone she knew in the village - had been lying.

  She groped for a chair and sat down quickly as her knees gave way.

  Chapter 4

  The policewoman turned the slide over on her hand in exactly the same way Claire had done, pursing her lips together thoughtfully, flipping it over and over. Claire sat and watched her, her foot doing its usual jig. The police officer was Family Liaison Officer, Constable Lyn James. Claire was surprised she didn’t look more excited – or perhaps excited wasn’t the right word. But she should be pleased, surely? After all this time, wasn’t this the breakthrough they needed?

  They were sitting in Claire’s living room. She had rung the police from the unit as soon as she had got over the shock of finding the slide. In the last few years she had lost touch with the Family Liaison Officer originally allocated to them when Gilly disappeared and, in any case, that policewoman had left to start a family of her own so it had been late afternoon before anyone else was available. Claire had been obliged to potter round the shop all day, desperately trying to find things to do to keep herself occupied, waiting for the clock to tick round and give her the chance to escape. Now she sat, picking at a loose piece of dry skin on her right thumb while she fixedly watched the policewoman’s face in the light shed from the lamp on the sideboard. Lyn James was older than the officer with whom they had all spent all that time six years ago. She wondered if she had any children herself.

  ‘And she was wearing this the day she disappeared?’ Lyn was saying. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes…’ Claire hesitated. Some parts of that day were etched in her memory, vivid and sharp; others were woolly and sometimes seemed to mutate the harder she tried to remember them. ‘Yes, I think so.’ She was aware of the lack of conviction in her voice and knew that the policewoman had heard it too. ‘I don’t remember seeing it in her things afterwards anyway.’

  The policewoman nodded, am
biguously. ‘Where did you buy it?’

  ‘Buy it? In Truro. At Pzazzies.’

  ‘The national chain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what makes you so certain that this one belonged to your daughter?’

  ‘Certain?’ Claire frowned, surprised at the question but starting to see where this was leading. ‘Well because it did. I recognise it. When we bought it I remember looking at them with her in the shop. There were a few different designs and this one came in two colours: that turquoise and a soft pink. I thought she’d choose the pink one but she preferred that.’ Claire felt her throat thicken and she swallowed hard. ‘She said it was the colour of the sea. She wore it a lot. She had other hair slides but that was her favourite. Of course you weren’t here when she went missing so you wouldn’t know but she had shoulder length hair – curly - and she used the slide to clip it back on one side.’

  Claire demonstrated vaguely with her own hair. She stopped talking, looking at the policewoman with a knot of frustration forming in her stomach. Why didn’t she understand how significant this was?

  ‘But there’s nothing about it that makes it especially hers?’ Lyn prompted gently, turning the slide over again. ‘I mean are there any particular distinguishing marks?’ She looked up at Claire with a kind smile. ‘You see where I’m coming from here? You bought this from a national retail chain. There will have been thousands of these slides sold. It would be very difficult if not impossible to prove that this one belonged to your daughter. If I’m frank, Mrs Pennyman, it seems unlikely after all this time that your daughter’s slide would turn up at the church fête.’

  Claire stared at her. The policewoman was breaking it gently but it was clear she thought this was a wild goose chase. Claire could imagine Neil’s reaction too. Really Claire, get a grip. You’re making a fool of yourself. And yet she wasn’t mad; she knew it was Gilly’s slide.

  ‘But surely,’ she said desperately, ‘the likelihood of the same slide appearing in a little village like this is incredibly small?’

  Lyn raised her eyebrows and offered a weak smile. ‘Not really. The village has a couple of new estates, doesn’t it? There are more children here now. I know because I visited the school not long ago. And like I said: that chain would have sold thousands of these. Anyway, is it just village people who give to the fête? There are a lot of holiday cottages in the village too aren’t there?’

  ‘Ye-es.’ Claire’s frown deepened. She had been on the village fête committee for a couple of years way back and yes, she did vaguely remember that they had made a point of targeting the holiday cottages with leaflets too. ‘OK then, so…couldn’t you test the slide for…I don’t know, DNA or something?’

  ‘With the number of people who will have handled this, just in the last few weeks, Mrs Pennyman, I don’t think it’s going to offer us any valid information now. I mean, for example, if it still had one of Gilly’s hairs caught in it…’ She shrugged. ‘But certainly I can take it with me if you like and see what I can do.’

  Claire imagined the slide being put in one of their neat polythene bags, filed away somewhere, carefully forgotten, the offer merely a sop to keep the victim’s family happy. She reached out her hand.

  ‘No, of course you’re right. And when I think about it maybe Gilly was wearing something else that day. She had another slide she used a lot. I’ll keep this, thanks. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’

  Lyn relinquished the slide into Claire’s grip and smiled kindly. She stood up.

  ‘Not at all. I can entirely understand why you contacted us. Since as you say I wasn’t here when your daughter disappeared, I’ll have another look at the case file and have a word with my senior officer, see if there are any leads which might be worth following up. I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.’

  Claire saw the woman to the door, closed it behind her and leaned heavily against it. The slide was still in her hand and she straightened up, opening her fingers, watching the light glint dully from the little stones. She walked across the room and put it down on the sideboard, then went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine from a bottle she’d opened the previous Saturday night.

  Back on the sofa, the glass in one hand and the slide in the other she let the alcohol gradually numb the edges of the pain inside her, felt her breathing slow and the tension in her muscles ease a little. She stared at the slide. Of course there would be no fingerprints or DNA on it now, nothing to check. Even if the abductor’s prints had been there, they’d be smudged or more likely obliterated. And Claire couldn’t prove it was Gilly’s slide. She flipped it over in her fingers then gripped it hard, feeling the edges of the plastic dig into the flesh of her fingers, then quickly eased the grip. She didn’t want to break it. It was a tangible link and whatever the police thought, she knew it was important.

  The wine finished, she put the glass down and sat staring at the hair slide, her thoughts slipping back in time. The policewoman who had liaised with her when Gilly disappeared had been called Mariella. Mariella Jansen. She’d been a big, broad-shouldered girl with a hearty grip and a calm, firm manner; at the start she had felt like a mountain of security and reassurance. She had sat with the distraught Claire patiently coaxing her to explain repeatedly the order in which everything had happened.

  ‘Tell me again, Mrs Pennyman, just so I can get this straight in my head, in case there’s anything new which might occur to you. Anything at all might help.’

  ‘She came home from school,’ Claire had begun.

  ‘Came home how?’

  ‘She walked. The school isn’t far away and she kept asking to come by herself because that’s what her friends did. She wanted to feel grown up. When she turned eight we decided to let her.’

  ‘Yes,’ prompted Mariella. ‘So she walked home from school. What happened then?’

  ‘I was working. I do illustrations, usually for books. I had a commission which was getting really close to the deadline so I gave her a drink – orange – and a chocolate bar to keep her going. Then I told her I needed to work for another hour so I asked her to be good and play quietly till I’d finished. She asked if she could go and play with Danny - he’s her cousin and the same age. They’d arranged it when they were coming out of school - to meet at the village playground. She was like that – very…independent. I said OK but that they mustn’t wander off. But I’ve spoken to him and he didn’t stay long and he went home. He left her at the playground.’

  ‘Does Gilly sometimes wander off?’

  ‘Well yes. She’s fascinated by nature, you know, insects and butterflies and birds, fish in the stream…anything like that. She’s more of an outdoor girl and sometimes follows things or goes looking…’ Claire’s voice trailed away.

  ‘She hasn’t actually run away before then?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. She just loses track of time.’ Claire frowned, feeling increasingly cross. ‘Are you trying to say she’s run away now? She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘You’re sure? There hasn’t been an argument or anything…or something she had been told off for? Sometimes a really trivial thing can make a child go off.’

  ‘No. There hasn’t been anything like that.’

  ‘So what made you worry this time?’

  ‘It’s been too long.’ Claire automatically glanced again at the clock. She had been doing it regularly every few minutes. ‘She’s never been so long before. Never.’

  ‘OK. Look, now I know how difficult this is for you Mrs Pennyman but you mustn’t panic. The majority of children turn up again. Like Gilly they wander off, get lost sometimes, lose track of time. It’s possible she fell over and hurt her leg – something quite innocent but which is stopping her coming back. We’ll go and search for her. Try not to worry. You just tell me where her favourite places are to explore. That’ll be a good start.’

  Sitting staring into space now, Claire reflected yet again that she had made a mistake in admitting that G
illy sometimes wandered. She had become increasingly certain of it over the years. Once the police knew that the girl had absented herself before, they felt less urgency; they were sure she would turn up again of her own volition. Claire had even accused them of it and of course they had denied it but she had no doubt: by the time they had taken the problem seriously all hope of finding Gilly’s trail had gone. And then their very real concern about Gilly’s welfare had turned subtly into suspicion and endless questioning. Where had all the family been when Gilly disappeared? What were their relationships like? Had there been any rows between the parents, jealousies, affairs? Had anyone seen her that afternoon…? Mariella had been charming and yet thorough, if not ruthless. Claire had slowly become convinced that she wasn’t so much an ally as a spy in their midst, waiting for someone to make a mistake.

  Claire picked up the slide thoughtfully. Gilly had been wearing a necklace too, a pretty little beaded affair that Sally had sent to her granddaughter for her birthday. Unfortunately there had been no sign of it with the other things in the box. If that had been there too, it would have proved the link.

  She flipped the slide over and brought it closer to examine a couple of fine scratches on the back. Any particular distinguishing marks, the policewoman had asked. Did she recognise these scratches? Claire wasn’t sure. She hadn’t handled it that much. Gilly was past the age when she wanted her mother to do her hair for her. From the moment she mastered any skill she had always wanted to do it for herself. She was, in almost all things, her mother’s daughter. The only time she tolerated having things done for her was when she was ill. Would she still be the same?