“How did you find out about him?” James asked. He was stunned; he reckons he knows his daughter so well, Emily thought, and now he’s having to recalibrate his mind to accommodate this different version of her.
Jess looked down at her hands, choosing her words carefully. “There was one afternoon—in early November, I think, because I remember the fireworks had been keeping Daisy awake at night and she was a bit off color. We were meant to be at our Friday soft-play that afternoon, but Daisy had whined all the way through the first half hour, so we’d come home early. I’d literally just got through the front door and hung up my coat when I heard the key turning in the back door.”
Emily could feel the steady pounding of her heartbeat. She nodded impatiently for Jess to continue.
“I didn’t move. I suppose I was momentarily scared it was a burglar or something—and I watched them come tumbling through the back door—Chloe and this boy—laughing, and I thought, He’s been here before. They still couldn’t see me around the corner, and I watched as he went straight to the cupboard for a glass—he knew where it was—and then helped himself to orange juice from the fridge. When I stepped into view, Chloe nearly had a heart attack.”
“How long has it been going on?” James asked.
“I’m guessing every Friday afternoon,” Jess replied. “Soft-play runs from 2:30 onward, and I’m rarely back home before five. Until that day, there’d been a clear month or so when the house had been empty pretty much every Friday afternoon.”
“How old is he?” James asked, as Emily’s impatience strained closer to the surface.
“I don’t know. He wasn’t in school uniform, but he looked fairly young to me—not much taller than Chloe and quite slight. He had freckles like that kid on the front of MAD magazine. Seventeen, perhaps?” Jess’s attention moved between James and Emily, as she tried to gauge their reactions, anxiety in her expression. “Chloe says he’s a nice guy.”
James looked pale. “Are they sleeping together?”
The force of Emily’s fists slamming down on the breakfast table was violent enough to send the knives clattering. “Jesus! What the hell does it matter if Chloe’s shagging her boyfriend, when Daisy’s missing?”
Jess flinched, her disapproval instantly written in her eyes, and Emily hated her as she saw James and her exchange a fleeting, horrified glance.
“Of course it matters!” he rounded on her in suppressed anger. “How can you even think like that, Emily? She’s fifteen. I know Daisy’s missing—don’t you think my world has fallen apart too? But Chloe’s still here—and we’re still her parents. I’m still her father!”
Emily’s heart hardened a little more, and with no acknowledgment that James had spoken at all, she turned to Jess. “I don’t understand why you’re telling us this now, Jess. And more to the point, I don’t see how it has anything to do with Daisy’s disappearance.”
Jess frowned. “But don’t you see? Chloe had forgotten her front door key, so they had to come in through the back.” She paused, waiting for Emily and James to catch up. “And the only way through the back door is with the spare key we keep in the greenhouse, isn’t it?”
They both nodded, still clearly struggling to understand.
“Which means that you, me, and Chloe aren’t the only ones who knew where the spare key is kept. Max knew about it too.”
“The spare key,” James murmured. “Shit, how could we have forgotten about the spare key?” In a heartbeat, he was on his feet, sprinting through the back door and up the yard to the greenhouse, to retrieve the spare back door key from its hiding place, inside a gardening glove beneath a flowerpot, tucked out of sight behind the aluminium shelving.
“Is everything OK?” DC Cherry appeared in the back doorway, alerted to the fresh panic. “I’ve just seen James sprinting down the yard—what’s going on? Has something happened?”
Both women shook their heads, not wanting to speak until their suspicions were confirmed. DC Cherry fell silent, knowing better than to press them, his attention on the greenhouse at the far end, waiting for James’s reappearance. Long minutes passed, and the sisters sat gazing at each other across the table, one glaring, the other on the brink of tears, with nothing but the whirring buzz of the fridge freezer to break the silence.
As the phone started ringing again, James reappeared in the doorway, panic radiating from his tautly held figure. “It’s gone,” he said, breathing heavily, turning to DC Cherry, preparing to tell him everything. “The key’s not there.”
Now, as Jess fills the kettle for what seems like the hundredth cup of tea, all Emily can do is wait for the police to return. She stands at the kitchen counter, a pill in one hand, a glass of water in the other, averting her gaze from Jess and James and the ever-present DC Cherry. She doesn’t know how much more of this she can take. She swallows the tablet down, swallows down her feelings of heartbreak, of terror, of betrayal. And waits.
* * *
It had been easy for Emily to love Chloe when she first met James. She was the sweetest little thing, not yet two years old, and the way she adored her father would have thawed even the coolest of hearts. When James first introduced them, it was over Sunday lunch at his house, and Emily marveled over the ease with which he prepared and served the roast meal, carving and pouring wine, all the while tending to Chloe in her high chair at his side. When she needed spoon-feeding, he did so with minimum fuss; when her face wanted cleaning, he vanished her mess with a quick swipe of the napkin, chucking her under her chin to turn her objections into a smile. They were a delight to be around—not only James, but Chloe too. It wasn’t just James Emily fell for; it was the pair of them, the whole package. Being part of it made her feel warm and complete—wanted, needed—and gradually, she knew, indispensable.
And of course, it was her tacit appreciation that they came as a package that helped James to fall for Emily so easily. Secretly, Emily acknowledges this as clearly today as she did back then, and she wonders how different things might have been if she hadn’t so embraced the role of mother that had been implicit in James’s invitation to start a new life with them over on the island all those years ago. It was a such a happy time when they set up house together, Chloe no longer having any need of a nanny, and Emily stepping effortlessly into the caring role. Not once had she felt envy at the little girl’s devotion to her father, or his to her, and for the first ten years, at least, they had been a tight unit, happy in their small family clique, really needing no one but each other for happiness and companionship. Each morning, when James headed off to work, Emily and Chloe would busy about like longtime companions—Emily clearing dishes, making sandwiches, sorting the laundry, Chloe racing up and down the stairs, searching for misplaced shoes and homework—and then they would set off for school together, walking along the coastal path in all weathers, their hands linked and swinging between them. Emily thinks of those simple days, of that sweet little Chloe, and she wonders where she went. Who could find her in the Chloe of today, with her secrets and silences, with her glowering moods, her hidden thoughts and long absences? That lovely little Chloe gradually shrank away inside the impostor who now inhabits the bedroom beside Daisy’s, vanished inside the thorny, black-eyed gazelle who now trails down the staircase behind her hollowed-out father. This Chloe is not so easy to love.
* * *
DCI Jacobs tells James she thinks it best initially to interview Chloe at home, with her parents present, where she might feel more relaxed about opening up. Chloe is sitting in the living room, waiting, as they speak in whispers in the kitchen, agreeing how to proceed.
After James discovered the key missing, he had first phoned Beth’s parents, only to hear that Chloe hadn’t stayed over at their house in months, and then DC Cherry had taken over, phoning around until he tracked down DCI Jacobs, who’d said she would come over straightaway. Although none of them said it, they were all taken aback at the speed with which Jacobs reacted to the new information, and the three
of them had waited anxiously for her arrival, delaying the moment they must call Chloe out from her room. Strange how they have become three: Emily, James, and Jess.
“If we don’t get anywhere with her this morning,” says DCI Jacobs now, accepting a cup of coffee from Jess, “we’ll interview her again at the station. We’re not out to scare anybody, but sometimes the formality of the police station environment can be enough to extract the truth, if it’s a little slow in coming.”
James agrees, and Emily leads the way through to the living room, glad to leave Jess alone to clear up in the kitchen. Ever since Daisy went missing, Jess has become a spare part, and with no specific job role to fulfill, it seems she has clung to the new responsibility of “carer,” automatically taking over the household duties of cooking and cleaning, running errands, and making sure everything and everyone is all right. On the one hand, Emily is grateful; on the other, she wishes she’d simply vanish into thin air—as if she’d never returned at all—and leave them to moulder in their grief. Emily is growing impatient with her sister’s constant presence, however helpful; no one should be able to bear such close witness to a crisis of this kind—it should be something private, sheltered within the confines of family, between husband and wife. Not that she and James are actually married. This has always bothered her, and his excuses that he doesn’t see the point, that it would bring up painful memories of the past, don’t wash with Emily. “As far as I’m concerned, you are my wife,” he had said to her at that New Year’s party, his eyes heavy with drink. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m not,” she had replied. “You married Avril,” she’d added, knowing this would hurt him. “Avril’s dead,” he’d said in a hushed whisper, his expression aghast, shaming her. She had seen the dark film of sadness pass across his eyes, and she’d fetched her coat and left. Those were her last words to him before the nightmare unfolded; those were her last words to him before Daisy disappeared.
Whenever that same argument comes up, James reminds her he is more than happy for her to call herself Mrs. King, to refer to them as husband and wife, in the same way as she refers to herself as Chloe’s mum. If she was worried about what the outside world thought of them, wasn’t that enough? To be Mrs. King in name, if not on paper? No, she thinks now, as she takes her seat on the sofa beside James—no, it’s not enough. A wedding ceremony sends a message to the rest of the world—a message of significance, of devotion—of belonging. Why wouldn’t he want to do that with her, for her?
“So, Chloe . . . ,” DCI Jacobs begins. She has pulled her armchair closer to Chloe’s, so that the leather arms are touching. Emily notes with irritation how the inspector didn’t even think to ask her permission, just went ahead and moved their furniture, exposing a nasty great carpet indentation where the chair had previously sat. “I’m sure you’re feeling a bit worried right now?”
Chloe nods, her face drained of color. She looks tall and gawky, too big for the school uniform she still has to wear.
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about, so long as you’re truthful and clear in your answers. You’re, what, fifteen? OK, so your parents are here to make sure they’re happy with everything—but you’re old enough for me to talk to you like the young adult you are. So if everyone’s ready to start”—she turns and looks to James and Emily for their approval—“we’ll chat as if it’s just us in the room, Chloe, just you and me. OK?”
Chloe nods again. There’s a defensive air about her, and she looks like a cornered animal, her eyes restless and furtive.
The inspector smiles at Emily and James, a closed-lipped businesslike smile, to acknowledge that they are starting. “Let’s start with Max Fuller. Would you describe him as your boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Chloe mutters. Her gaze flickers briefly toward Emily and James, but she doesn’t hold eye contact. She’s ashamed, thinks Emily. As she should be.
“And, Chloe, how long have you been seeing Max?”
“Since the end of the summer holidays—just before the start of school.”
DCI Jacobs makes a note. “So it’s quite serious, then? That’s four months. That’s a long time to keep it a secret.”
Chloe shifts in her seat. “It’s not a secret. I just didn’t want Emily and Dad to know about it.”
Emily bristles. She still hasn’t got used to Chloe using her first name, having adopted the habit about a year ago, and it still hurts.
“Why not? It’s the kind of thing most parents would want to know about.”
Chloe shrugs, fixating on the seam of her sweater’s cuff.
“Is he older than you, Chloe?”
No answer.
“Chloe?”
“A bit.”
Emily turns to look at James, who has the appearance of a man about to vanish inside himself. She watches the rise and fall of his throat as he swallows, his eyes never leaving his daughter.
“Just so you know,” DCI Jacobs says, her gentle tone giving way to the subtlest threat, “my officers back at the station are running checks on Max as we speak. So we’ll soon have all his details—how old he is, where he lives, whether he has a criminal record of any kind. Are we likely to find anything we don’t like the look of, Chloe? I’m not asking you to betray him; we will find out anyway.”
Chloe shakes her head violently. “No! He’s a nice person.” For the first time, she looks directly at her father. “You’d like him, Dad—I just didn’t think you’d like me going out with anyone while I’m in the middle of my GCSEs.”
“How old is he?” James asks. Emily notices how strangled his voice sounds, as if he might cry.
Chloe doesn’t speak for a moment, lacing her fingers together, over and under, as she gathers her reply. Then she juts her chin out, a challenge. “He’s nineteen.”
James half rises from his seat, but Emily reaches out a stilling hand, and he sits again, dropping his forehead into his hands. “For Christ’s sake, Chloe—nineteen?”
Chloe starts to cry, and when James moves toward her, both Emily and DCI Jacobs react to prevent him. He drops back into his seat, his face awash with unease as he distracts himself by rolling up his shirtsleeves, smoothing out the trouser creases along his thighs. His shirt looks barely ironed, his manner disheveled and restless. The vertical furrows that mark out his jaw as strong are clenched, the blue of his eyes more startling. It reminds Emily of how he was when they first met, of the strength she gathered in response to his vulnerability, and she shuts the memory down as quickly as she thinks it.
“Can we just stick to my questions for the time being, please?” DCI Jacobs asks, regaining control of the situation in a second. She raises a flat palm toward James. “Everyone, please, just take a deep breath. There’ll be plenty of time for you to talk together after this. For now, we just need facts.”
Chloe wipes away her tears, visibly trying to compose herself. “OK, he’s nineteen, but he’s been really respectful—you know, about me not being sixteen yet.” She looks at Emily meaningfully, clearly hoping she’ll understand, but Emily looks away.
“But you’ve been staying over at his flat, haven’t you? When you told your parents you were staying with Beth, you were actually sleeping at Max’s house?”
“Yes, but we’ve never—you know. I swear!”
“OK, so you’re not sleeping together?”
“No.”
“So what do you do together?”
Chloe looks lost.
“Do you go out, to the cinema for example, or for pizza?”
Emily can feel her heart rate increasing; what the fuck is this woman going on about? Pizza? Why isn’t she asking her about Daisy?
“Well, mostly we stay in and watch films together, and we like walking on the beach late at night, after everyone else has gone home. Max hates sharing the beach, he says. He likes it when it’s completely empty and we have it all to ourselves.”
“And you, Chloe? Do you like that too?”
“Yes. It’s peaceful. Max says the world is t
oo full of stuff that doesn’t matter—that if we wanted to, we could all live with less stuff, less money, and just do the things we want to do, make up our own rules. Look at this place,” she says, her eyes casting around the large, plush living room, at the Christmas tree still standing tall by the bay window, its lights unlit. The look on her face is pure disdain. “We’ve got far more than we could ever need. It’s obscene.”
James looks shocked.
“His words, I presume?” Emily says, biting down on her fury, containing herself with shallow breaths.
“He’s right,” Chloe retorts, and a flash of hatred passes between the two.
DCI Jacobs throws a reproachful glare at Emily and shifts around in her seat, drawing one leg up under the other, in a more intimate pose. “Max knew about your spare back door key, didn’t he, Chloe? He knew where it was hidden?”
Chloe’s panic breaks through, and she’s on her feet. “I know what you’re all getting at! You’re looking for someone to blame for Daisy’s disappearance, and Max is just the person! You’ve got it so wrong!”
DCI Jacobs remains cool, indicates for Chloe to sit down with the briefest jerk of her chin. Chloe obeys.
“Of course that’s not what we want. We want to find Daisy, and in order to do that, we need to establish the chain of events that night. So again, Chloe, did Max know about the spare key that was hidden in the greenhouse?”
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