by Anne Cassidy
Jon leant forward, his face rapt with curiosity. She lowered her voice, even though there was no one nearby to hear them.
‘That letter? It was an anonymous note about the missing girls. I don’t know if it’s a fake or a joke or what. I don’t want to take it to the police in case it means nothing and gets everyone’s hopes up. I’ve had them before, over the years: letters, phone calls about the girls.’
The lies came easily. Jon sat up and assumed a serious expression. This was what happened to most kids she knew whenever she mentioned ‘the girls’. It was shorthand for years of sadness and loss. Kids always seemed to stiffen up, look at her in a kindly but distant way. It was why she’d clicked with Tommy so quickly. He’d reacted differently.
‘So if I could find out who this person was who gave the envelope to you then I could work out how genuine it was …’
‘Right. Well, I won’t say a word to anyone,’ he said. ‘So, yesterday, we went on a trip to the British Museum. We were doing some primary research, looking at old manuscripts. It was pretty good as it goes …’
‘Yes?’ Mandy said.
‘Anyway, a few of us went out for a walk around at lunchtime and I saw this car parked on a double yellow line and half up on the pavement. It was a car – not a van – and on the back, on the hatch window, it had some italic writing. It was for cakes. I wrote it down here.’
Jon pulled something out of his trouser pocket. It was a scrap of newspaper, the corner of a page that had been torn off. On the margin was some handwriting. He read it out.
‘“Paris Patisserie. We deliver to your door.” There’s a phone number as well.’
She didn’t say anything, unsure as to what he was offering her.
‘As soon as I saw the car and the writing on the back I felt as if I’d seen it somewhere before. Then I remembered. It was on the back of the car that the girl got into. The one who gave me the letter for you. It was the word “Patisserie” that I noticed because it’s unusual.’
‘Did you see the girl again?’
‘No, the car was empty. Maybe they were delivering stuff. I don’t know. But I thought I’d tell you. It would be easy to look on the web and find out where the shop is.’
‘Yes,’ Mandy said.
‘Then you could go and ask around. See who worked there. Unless it’s a huge place you should be able to spot her. Do you want me to come with you? I could come along, if you felt nervous about going on your own.’
Mandy was surprised. It was the second time that day she’d been offered some sort of friendship. The last one she’d all but turned down. She had no intention of taking anyone with her to find Petra but she didn’t want to sound ungrateful.
‘Maybe. Or maybe, after I’ve been to check it out, we could have a coffee. A way of me saying thank you.’
Jon nodded. ‘Send me a text.’
He slid his phone off the table, picked his bag up and left. She sat there for a few moments, looking at the scrap of newsprint in her hand. Paris Patisserie. Now she wouldn’t have to wait any longer for Petra to contact her.
Twenty-Three
Paris Patisserie was not a shop. It was a bakery based in Kentish Town. Mandy found its website easily and read over the services it offered. ‘We travel all over North London providing patisserie for all functions and events. We deliver regularly to offices, cafés and conference centres. We will also supply our premium products for special events: weddings, parties, birthdays and work-related celebrations. You can order through our website or by phone.’ The website had photographs of a wide range of pastries and gateaux with prices and details alongside them. There were smiling chefs and pictures of a van and a car, and also a moped, similar to those used by pizza delivery firms. The italicised logo was on the side of the van and the moped but it was on the back window of the car as Jon Wallis had said.
Mandy put the postcode into Google Maps. It showed a minor road a couple of streets away from Kentish Town tube station. She would go there tomorrow instead of school. She was not sure what she would do when she got there but she would at least see where it was and whether there was any sign of the girl with the red hair who she thought (almost certainly) was Petra.
She heard the doorbell from downstairs. Her mother shouted, ‘I’ll get it.’
She tidied her books up and thought about Jon Wallis and his offer to go with her to the shop. She’d been touched by it. She’d known he liked her for a while. He lived ten or so houses along her street, although when she was in the lower forms he largely ignored her. He was one of the older boys she saw around, too disdainful to speak to anyone younger. After she’d done her GCSEs he changed and became friendly towards her, sometimes walking along with her when she was leaving school. He told her what it was like in the sixth form and said that she could hang out with him and his mates any time if she wanted to. She’d been flattered and might have taken him up on his offer if Tommy hadn’t breezed into school and swept her up into his company. Jon Wallis was chatty and easy-going but Tommy had a spark that just drew people to him. It didn’t work with everyone though. Anyone who was extroverted with their clothes and their personality was looked on with suspicion by the long line of sixth-form boys who liked their football teams and their music and their video games. Boys like Jon didn’t get people like Tommy. Tommy was interested in books and art and movies. He liked to argue about politics and philosophy and was proud of the oddness of his clothes.
Tommy was unique.
Mandy sat down on the edge of her bed and felt herself go weak. Tommy was who she wanted. Not Jon Wallis. Not Lucy (whatever her surname was). But Mandy was not for him. He wanted one of the girly girls.
She heard footsteps up the stairs and then her room door opened slightly. Her mum peeked in.
‘Alison’s here. I’m just making her a cup of tea. Come down and say hello.’
Mandy sighed. ‘I’ve got loads of work …’
Her mum looked round her room. Her bag was on the floor, her school things not yet unpacked. Her laptop was open though, showing the website for Paris Patisserie. She shut it down guiltily.
‘Looks to me like you’re wasting time on Facebook. Just come down for five minutes. You’ve not seen Alison since she came back from France. Please! You know how she likes to talk to you!’
Mandy nodded stiffly and her mum went back downstairs. She closed her eyes in irritation. Why did she always have to be present when Alison came? She was tired of trying to be positive in front of her, especially now that she had all this stuff about Petra in her head. How could she look Alison in the face when her mind was full of Petra? She could imagine Alison staring at her with her sharp eyes and suspecting the contents of Mandy’s thoughts.
Seeing Alison had always been an ordeal and she was tired of being an audience for her suffering. The trip to France had come to nothing. The girl at the garage had turned out not to be Tina at all. She was a girl from a group of travellers who were staying in the area for a short time. Alison had spent five days there. She had liaised with police and other traveller’s sites had been checked. She had been interviewed by French television and had also met parent support groups of missing French children. When she first got back she was interviewed by one of the breakfast news programmes. She seemed calm and articulate: ‘We have to follow up every lead, no matter how fragile.’ Mandy had watched for a few moments before changing channels. Alison had dark lipstick on and her skin was pale. She looked slick and in control and yet Mandy was sure that when she raised her hand to make a point it was trembling, as if all her emotions had been pushed out to the tips of her fingers.
Where is Tina? Alison must ask that question every hour of every day.
Mandy had asked it too. Where was Tina? If Petra was working in a bakery in Kentish Town then where was Tina?
She could hear her mum calling her. She went to the door of her room.
‘Mandy! The tea’s ready. Come and have a cup.’
Mandy didn’t answer
. Then she heard another voice.
‘Mandy, come and see me. I’ll tell you about my trip to France!’ Alison called.
She sighed and went downstairs.
Mandy found the bakery within minutes of getting to Kentish Town Tube station the next morning. She walked along a busy road then turned off onto a cul-de-sac which ended after a number of shops and houses. Opposite was a warehouse with a high wire fence. At the very edge of it was a brick building that looked as though it had once been a primary school. There was a large sign with a variety of business headings and down at the bottom Mandy could see ‘Paris Patisserie’. There were solid iron gates and alongside them an entry-pad with a speaker. Inside, in what used to be the playground, Mandy could see a number of parked vehicles and in among them was the Paris Patisserie van and car. As she stood there a couple of men emerged from a door in the building. They were wearing white trousers and tops and were taking a cigarette break. She wondered if they worked for Paris Patisserie or one of the other companies that used the premises.
She turned away from the building and thought about what to do. Across the road was a café. She walked towards it and decided to spend some time there thinking about how to proceed. Five minutes later she was sitting by the window with a cup of black coffee, staring out at the entrance to the old primary school.
She might have to sit there all day.
There was no guarantee that she would see Petra going into work or coming out. It might be her day off. She might not even work there regularly. If she was one of the people who delivered the pastries she may get picked up from her home address and then go round the offices and shops making calls. She might never come to this building. Mandy could sit there for a week and not see her.
That’s if it even was Petra. It was a stupid idea to come.
And yet five minutes later, before Mandy’s coffee had cooled enough for her to take a sip, a girl with red hair came out of the building and walked towards the iron gates. Mandy stared at her, unable to believe her eyes. She was wearing a short green puffa jacket and jeans. Her hair was parted at the side, sleek and straight, and sat on her shoulders. It was the colour of mahogany. She stood at the gate for a second before a small door opened within it and she stepped outside onto the street. Mandy stood up, picked up her bag and left her coffee on the table. She paused in the doorway of the café to allow the girl with red hair (was it Petra?) to walk ahead. She headed after her just as the girl turned the corner onto the high street. Mandy followed, keeping well back. The green puffa jacket stood out and she was able to see her from a distance. She hoped she didn’t get a bus or a Tube. After a short while the girl stopped and went into a shop. Mandy paused as if looking at some posters on a wall nearby. She glanced up in the direction of the shop that the girl had gone into. She came out of it carrying what looked like a large container of milk. Mandy continued to follow her. It wasn’t long before she turned off the high street. She was heading down a road with houses tightly packed on each side. Mandy slowed up, feeling a flutter of excitement. Was this where she was staying? Could it be this easy to find her?
The girl turned into a front garden then knocked at the door. Mandy could hear the thump thump of the knocker. The door opened and then shut. Mandy crossed the road and walked on until she was opposite. Number thirty-four. It had a FOR SALE sign in the front garden and looked a bit run-down.
What was she going to do?
Mandy walked along a bit, her confidence failing her. Was this the right person? She’d seen her face properly once, in the beam of light that came from a torch. She’d called her by her name and then she’d received the postcard via Jon Wallis. Surely it was Petra. What was she going to say to her? Where have you been for five years? Where is Tina?
Another feeling wormed its way around inside her. She hated herself for even thinking these thoughts. She had never been Petra’s choice of friend. Petra had always been a reluctant participant in the threesome, sometimes barely hiding her contempt for Mandy. Hadn’t she done the exact same thing now? After having been seen by Mandy she’d asked her not to tell anyone and said that she would contact her. But she hadn’t. Maybe, like five years ago, she couldn’t bear to have Mandy in her life again.
Mandy scrabbled at her wrist but there was no bangle for her to worry at. She was out of her depth here. She thought of Alison Pointer. She would do anything to find Tina and maybe the same went for Petra. Surely Petra was the key to knowing where Tina was, if she was still alive. Perhaps, now that she had the address, she should tell Alison or at the very least go to the police. Let them ask the girl with the red hair some questions.
The front door of the house opened and two men came out. They were talking loudly in a foreign language and one of them was laughing and clapping the other on the back. They walked off up the street.
Mandy didn’t know what to do.
She thought about the counsellor, Debbie. The last time she saw her she’d told her that one of the reasons for her continuing unhappiness was the unresolved hurt she felt about being rejected by Petra. Was this what was stopping her going across to the house, lifting the heavy knocker and demanding to see her now? She found herself slumping against the garden wall behind her. She’d lost impetus. She’d become weak. She imagined Petra opening the door and giving a sigh. ‘You again!’ she might say. ‘Can’t you get your own friends? Do you have to be always hanging round with me?’
Maybe Tommy thought that about her. Perhaps he saw her as too needy and that was why he went for Leanne. Was this always going to be Mandy’s problem? That she needed people too much?
There was a face at the downstairs window of the house. It was not the girl with the red hair but a woman. She was looking straight across the road at Mandy, making no attempt to hide herself behind the curtain. She was staring at her, no, more than that; she was glaring at her as if she was angry.
Mandy walked across the street. In moments she was standing at the front door and picking up the knocker, letting it bang loudly on the door. The door opened and the same woman stood there. She was small and had her hair pulled right up on the top of her head. She had attitude – her shoulders squared, her neck stretched, her face piqued, ready to argue, to tell Mandy to get lost.
‘I want to speak to Petra,’ she said.
‘Petra?’ the woman said with a tiny shake of her head as if Mandy had said, ‘I want to speak to Father Christmas.’
‘I know she’s in there. I need to speak to her. Petra Armstrong.’
‘You have wrong address!’ the woman said, her accent foreign, her words heavy like planks of wood being piled against her.
‘I know she’s here. I saw her. She sent me a postcard. I need to speak to her otherwise I’ll go to the police!’
‘No one here of that name. No one. Is house full of Polish. We don’t know Petra.’
‘OK, I’ll call the police then.’
Mandy took her phone out of her pocket. She was desperate and had no idea what she was doing, but she pressed nine once and then a second time. Before she pressed it again a voice called out from inside the house.
‘It’s OK. I’ll speak to her.’
The woman turned round. There, at the end of the hallway, was Petra.
Twenty-Four
Mandy stood on the doorstep. Petra walked up the hallway towards her. Mandy was holding her breath, her eyes travelling up and down this girl who she had once known. She was tall, thin and had long reddish hair that was parted at one side. She had on tight jeans and plimsolls and a baggy top. There were several bangles on her wrist and a chain round her neck on which hung a cross. Her face had a grown-up look but still, there, around the features, Mandy could see the younger girl. When she came to the front door she twisted her lips to the side and it was as if Mandy had gone back in time.
Petra spoke to the woman at the door in another language. The woman shrugged her shoulders. Petra put her arm around the woman’s shoulder and said softly, ‘Bedzie wszystko w porza
dku.’ The woman answered rapidly, and Petra listened and nodded, glancing at Mandy from time to time. The woman kept going, speaking in paragraphs. Petra whispered something with one finger up at Mandy as if to say, I won’t be a minute.