The Missing

by Jane Casey

  ‘Right.’ Carol was nodding encouragingly. I doubted she’d heard anything new so far. ‘And then you went out for a run.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then you found her,’ she supplied.

  ‘Mm.’ I looked out of the window.

  ‘Tell me about that,’ Carol said after a couple of seconds, when it became clear to her that I wasn’t planning to expand on it.

  ‘Well, it’s hard to remember exactly what happened. I saw something strange, realised it was a body, and called the police. They came, and the rest you know.’

  ‘So when did you realise you knew her? When did you recognise Jenny?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Did you look closely at the body when you found it?’

  I had seen the fading daylight on her pale, cold skin. I had seen the row of dry half-moons her teeth had carved in her lower lip.

  ‘I didn’t really get that close,’ I said smoothly.

  It was time to turn the tables on Carol; she’d had enough from me. ‘You must know a lot about what’s going on if you found out I was the one who discovered the body.’

  ‘I have my sources.’ Carol sipped her tea smugly.

  ‘What’s happening now? Have they got a suspect?’

  ‘They’re looking at a couple of people, but to be honest, I don’t think they know what’s going on. They didn’t get anything from the body. Nothing usable for forensics. The girl was completely clean.’

  That was interesting. ‘Did they find out how she died?’

  Carol looked at me shrewdly. ‘They announced it was drowning, didn’t they?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, realising I had made a mistake.

  ‘Didn’t it look like drowning to you? You saw the body. Why does drowning seem weird? Wasn’t she near a pond?’

  I shrugged. ‘I must have forgotten.’

  Carol shook her head, annoyed. ‘No, you knew there was something odd about it. You’re trying to pull a fast one on me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, injecting a note of outraged innocence into my denial that didn’t fool Carol for a second.

  ‘You know very well, Sarah, that the body wasn’t near water, was it? But that’s because she didn’t die there. They were able to tell that she drowned in chemically treated water.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Tap water. She was drowned in a house. In a bath, or a sink, or something.’ Carol’s tone was matter of fact. She dumped a spoonful of sugar into her tea and stirred it briskly, the metal clinking against the thick china mug.

  I squeezed my hands together under the table, so Carol couldn’t see them shaking. Someone had coldly ended Jenny’s life, in a bathroom or a kitchen. They had turned somewhere domestic and safe into a slaughterhouse.

  ‘How are the Shepherds coping?’ I asked, suddenly aware that a silence had fallen between us.

  ‘Mum’s distraught, obviously,’ she said through a mouthful of bacon sandwich. ‘I haven’t had a usable quote from her. She’s either zonked on pills or in tears. I doubt the police have been able to get anything either. Dad – well, Dad’s another story. He’s angry. I’ve never met anyone wound so tight.’

  Fear had burned in his eyes when I had first seen him. The anger had come later. I picked at my food. ‘It affects different people in different ways.’

  ‘Well, you’d know that, obviously,’ Carol said.

  I looked up, suddenly wary. The journalist was staring at me, eyes as flinty as ever.

  ‘I was doing some digging in the files, you see – much like you were back there in the library, I imagine. And what did I find? Another child who went missing, quite a while ago. Fifteen years, is it?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ I said, knowing that there was no point in prevaricating.

  She smiled without humour. ‘That’s right. Because you were only a little girl, weren’t you? In fact, I was surprised I’d recognised you. But it came to me straight away. Imagine how surprised I was, Sarah, to see your picture in the paper with your poor parents. I wasn’t put off by the name change – it was dead easy to check that out. Mother’s maiden name, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.

  ‘So I was thinking,’ Carol said, taking another huge bite of her sandwich and speaking with a wad of white bread, bacon and ketchup muffling the words, ‘I’d write a little piece about what it’s like for the family in these cases. You know, what happens to the ones who are left behind.’

  Involuntarily, I made a little noise indicative of dissent. Carol picked up on it. ‘Oh, I’m not asking you to cooperate. I’m telling you. Did you think I didn’t notice you getting the inside track on the investigation? Did you think you were going to get away without paying me back for that? I think it could be a fantastic human-interest story, don’t you? Two tragedies in one place, and you’re the connection. It’s almost … well, creepy, really. And I’m the only one who’s put it together, which makes it a very saleable proposition.’

  ‘Look,’ I said weakly, ‘I really don’t want to say anything.’

  ‘No, you look. There are two ways we can do this. I can put together a nice little piece with your help that will get the readers snivelling into their morning paper, or I can write something myself that goes through every rumour that there ever was about you and your family and your poor dead dad, because everyone got to thinking that he might know more than he let on, didn’t they? And now there’s this. I just think there’s something weird about you being so involved in this. You’re a proper little tragedy junkie, aren’t you? Probably miss the attention you used to get. Everyone’s forgotten Charlie, haven’t they? Do you really think that’s fair? Don’t you want people to remember him?’

  I didn’t say anything and she leaned over, her breasts settling and spreading against the greasy Formica tabletop. ‘It’s up to you, Sarah. You can talk to me or not. I can write it without you. Or …’ and she smiled, ‘I could just go straight to your mother.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ I said, distressed. ‘Leave her out of this.’

  ‘Why should I? She might have valuable insights for me.’ Carol sat back in her chair. ‘You know how your dad killed himself, Sarah—’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  She jumped on it. ‘An accident that set you and your mum up for life. Nice little wad of insurance money. Your mum hasn’t had to work since.’

  It was true, she hadn’t, and she was none the better for it. I stood up and grabbed my bag, too angry to speak.

  ‘Before you rush out of here, just have a think about this,’ Carol said. ‘If you cooperate with me, we can have a nice little chat and I’ll make you look like an angel. I won’t even give your new name away. You get a chance to set the record straight; I get a nice human-interest piece that should go well in the Sunday papers. I’m thinking the Sunday Times would be a good fit for it. Maybe the Observer. Something high-end, anyway.’

  I hesitated, torn. I didn’t trust Carol. On the other hand, I could certainly trust her to make me look bad. ‘I’ve worked hard for my privacy. I don’t want to be photographed. I don’t want anyone to be able to recognise me from the article.’

  ‘Of course – that won’t be a problem. Come on,’ she wheedled. ‘It’s up to you.’

  It really wasn’t. I knew I should tell her to go to hell. I knew no good would come of talking to her. But I couldn’t take the risk.

  I sat down on the edge of the chair again, defeated. ‘What do you want to know?’

  1992

  Seven weeks missing

  The smell of school on the first day back: chalk dust, fresh paint, disinfectant, new books. At the front of the classroom, my new teacher – new for the class and new to the school – is tall and slim, with very short dark hair and green eyes, and her name is Miss Bright.

  As the last of the class file in, I fidget, excited and a little bit nervous. My dad has bought me a schoolbag and matching pencil ca
se with Beauty from Beauty and the Beast on them, and I notice Denise Blackwell looking at them as she sits down near me. I turn and smile at her. I’ve always wanted to be friends with her. Denise has almost-white fair hair and tiny stud earrings that glint in her ears and a dainty, toes-out way of standing.

  Instead of smiling back, Denise looks straight at me for a minute, then looks away and starts whispering with Karen Combes – Karen, who has a permanently snotty nose, who wet herself on our first day at school. I can tell the whispering is about me: Karen leans forwards so she can stare at me while Denise is speaking to her. I frown and put my hand up to my head to hide my face.

  A figure comes and stands by my desk: Miss Bright. ‘Oh dear. Are you bored already? That’s not a very good start, is it? You look like you’re falling asleep. Come on, sit up straight. Make an effort.’

  Everyone in the class laughs, a little too loudly, hoping that Miss Bright will like them. My face is flaming. I stare straight down into my lap, my hair hanging down.

  ‘What’s your name, sleepyhead?’

  ‘Sarah Barnes,’ I say very quietly.

  Miss Bright stands there for a second, not saying anything. Then she pats my arm. ‘Don’t worry. Just try to pay attention, all right?’

  I look up to see her walking away. Her face is red, as if she’s embarrassed. I can’t think why for a minute, and then I realise. She’s been told to be nice to me because of Charlie.

  I’m not like the others any more. I’m different.

  At breaktime, I ask if I can stay in the classroom. I tell Miss Bright that I don’t feel well and she lets me sit with my head on my arms while everyone else goes outside to play. I make clouds on the shiny surface of my desk with my breath. The classroom is silent, apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall. I stay there again at lunchtime. Everyone else goes to the lunchroom to eat, and then outside to play. I can hear them outside, laughing and screaming.

  When the bell rings at the end of the day, I get up and join the others who are queuing by the door. I can feel that everyone is looking at me. I look down at my hands, tight on the handle of my new schoolbag, until Miss Bright opens the door.

  Mum’s late. Other parents are late, too, and all around me children are playing chasing and jumping about, laughing and shouting at the tops of their voices. I keep my eyes fixed on the school gate, where Mum should be. Every time I see a dark head there, my heart lifts, but it’s never her. Eventually I wander over to the gate so I can see more of the street, then slip outside. The playground is too noisy: my head hurts.

  As soon as I step outside the gate, I realise that I have made a mistake. Kids, including classmates of mine, mill about, unsupervised. Denise comes towards me, Karen in tow. I can’t go back into the playground, or run away. It’s too late. Denise leans in, too close to me, and says in a low voice, ‘You think you’re special, don’t you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘There was a letter about you from the school. They told us we had to be nice to you.’ Denise’s face was mean, her eyes narrow. ‘Did you cry when your brother ran away?’

  I don’t know what the right answer is. ‘Yes,’ I say at last.

  ‘Cry baby,’ Denise hisses, and Karen starts to laugh.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I say, feeling desperate. ‘I didn’t cry. Not really.’

  ‘Don’t you care about your brother?’ Karen, this time. ‘Don’t you miss him?’

  Tears are stinging at the back of my nose but I won’t cry in front of them, I won’t.

  Denise comes even closer. ‘My mum says that your dad knows where he is. My mum says that your mum and dad are covering up what happened to him. They’re just pretending he’s run away. My dad says he’s probably dead.’

  There are other children crowding around us now. Someone shoves me in the back, hard, and everyone laughs. I turn around to see who did it. Michael Brooker is nearest. He is bright red with excitement, but his face is expressionless. I know he did it – everyone is looking from him to me and back again.

  ‘You pushed me,’ I say at last, and his eyes go wide.

  ‘Me? Me? I didn’t, I swear. What do you mean, pushed you? It wasn’t me.’

  There’s a smothered laugh. Someone else jostles me from the other side and I turn, starting to panic, outnumbered. Looking around, I can see nothing but malice in their eyes. Before I can think what to do, a long arm reaches through the crowd of children and grabs hold of me.

  ‘Fuck off, all of you,’ a rough voice says, and I recognise Danny, Charlie’s best friend. Danny, who goes to the secondary school up the hill – Danny, who is like my guardian angel at that moment. ‘Come on, Sarah. I’ll walk you home.’

  I push through the crowd of my classmates and no one tries to stop me.

  ‘I’m supposed to wait for Mum.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll probably bump into her on the way home.’

  I feel a wave of gratitude to Danny, who has always been nice to me, even when Charlie told him to ignore me. ‘Thanks for making them leave me alone.’

  ‘Little shits, they are. I was just walking back from school when I saw you.’ Danny leans down, his face close to mine. ‘Listen, Sarah. If anyone ever tries to give you a hard time about Charlie, just tell them to fuck off. If they won’t leave you alone, tell me, and I’ll get rid of them for you.’ He balls his hands up into fists. ‘I’ll teach them a lesson. I’ll look after you.’

  ‘Until Charlie comes back,’ I say, and regret it as Danny’s face drops.

  ‘Yeah, until Charlie comes back.’ Danny looks ahead and nudges me. ‘There’s your mum. Go on, run.’

  Before I can say anything else – even goodbye – Danny has gone, crossing the road without looking back. Mum is standing at the corner, frowning. When I reach her, she says, ‘You’re supposed to wait for me.’

  I can smell that she has been drinking again. I shrug. ‘I didn’t know if you’d come or not.’

  I think she is going to say something else – argue with me – but instead she sighs. We walk the rest of the way home in silence, while I think about Danny and what he said about looking after me, and I feel warm inside for the first time in a long time.

  Chapter 9

  I HAD TO walk home in the end. When Carol was finished, she gathered up her things and hurried out of the café without a backwards glance, and certainly without the offer of a lift. On the way back, my mood worsened as the ache in my knee intensified. I just hoped I hadn’t said too much.

  Turning in to Curzon Close, I found myself staring at Danny Keane’s house. I bit my lip. I was coming to realise that I couldn’t avoid him any longer. He was an important link with Charlie. It was time – past time – to talk to him, no matter what had happened between us, even though the thought of it washed colour into my cheeks. I shook my head, as if I could physically dislodge the memory from my mind. I couldn’t allow teenage humiliation to stand between me and the truth. Reading about what the Keanes had endured made it easier. We were both survivors. He’d understand what was driving me as no one else could.

  The Keanes’ house was in a poor state of repair. A car had leaked oil on the paving that covered the front garden, leaving a greasy patch the shape of Australia. Weeds flourished between the slabs. The doorbell had been dismantled and electric wiring spilled down from the disabled fitting in a way that didn’t look entirely safe. In a nod to suburban respectability, there were net curtains in all the windows, but they were grey with dirt and torn in places. The house looked deeply unloved, which it had in common with the one I occupied. Both houses looked like lifeless wrecks.

  Danny’s motorbike wasn’t outside, but on the off chance that he might be there I decided to knock on the door anyway. The door was a cheap, acrylic one that made a flat, dull sound as I rapped on it with my knuckles. There was no other way to announce that I was there; the holes left for door furniture had never been filled. Someone had stuffed them with toilet paper to block out draughts. I felt
slightly self-conscious on the doorstep, hoping that Mum hadn’t spotted me, wondering how long I should wait before knocking again or giving up. After a minute, there was a scuffling sound from behind the door, but it didn’t open. I knocked again with the same result, then crouched down to the letterbox.

  ‘Hello … it’s Sarah. Sarah from across the road. Sorry to bother you. I – I just wanted to talk to Danny, if I could …’

  At the mention of Danny the door swung open, revealing a hall littered with cardboard boxes and unidentifiable machine parts. It was mildly chaotic and none too clean. From behind the door, a greasy mop of hair and a small, suspicious eye appeared.

  ‘Hello,’ I tried again. ‘I’m Sarah.’

  The mop didn’t answer.

  ‘Er … are you Paul?’

  ‘Yuss,’ the mop said, nodding sanguinely.

  ‘I live across the road,’ I said, gesturing behind me at the house. ‘I, er, used to know your brother.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Paul said.

  About to carry on with my explanation, I stopped, mouth open. There was something about Paul’s tone that surprised me. It was flat, uninflected, but somehow loaded with significance. It was not a little unsettling.

  ‘Great,’ I said lamely. ‘Well. We’ve never met, have we?’

  A shoulder appeared, apparently for the express purpose of delivering a shrug.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Paul. Is Danny here?’

  ‘He’s at work,’ Paul said slowly, his voice edged with insolence. Silly me. Of course, it was mid-afternoon. Ordinary people were at work. I wasn’t because the school was closed. Which led neatly to my next question.

  ‘Why are you at home at this time on a weekday? Shouldn’t you be in school?’

  I had slipped into my teacher tone of voice and got a cheeky grin in return.

  ‘Don’t go to school no more.’

  I must have looked confused, because the boy pulled the door back and shuffled into view. He was obese. Not fat – huge. He was taller than average for his age, but that in no way made him look proportionate. Flesh hung in rolls down his arms, creasing around the joints. His torso was wreathed in soft bulges under a tent-sized T-shirt. He wore stained tracksuit bottoms and his swollen, misshapen feet were bare. His toenails were long and jagged, yellow against the bluish-grey skin, suggesting poor circulation, a body too strained to manage effectively. With difficulty, I looked away from them to meet his gaze again. His face was defiant, but there was a hint of hurt too.