I slip my arms into a cherry-red puffa jacket and stand before the mirror looking at my reflection. The jacket is close-fitting and warm, with deep pockets and a flattering hemline that just skims my bum. I know I look good in it, and I want it so much that I don’t even bother to try on the other things, still wearing it as I make my way to the till, asking the cashier to snip off the label once I’ve paid and bagging up my old coat. Checking my watch, I see it’s nearly time to meet Chloe, and I realize that what I’m feeling is gladness: I’m looking forward to seeing her, to hugging her and chatting with her on the drive back home.
Despite everything, today is the best I’ve felt in the almost two weeks since Daisy went missing, and as I turn my face toward the cool bright sunlight of January, I decide that, for today at least, I’m going to let myself feel that way.
* * *
As soon as Chloe gets in the car, I sense she needs to talk, so I take a detour on the way home, stopping off at the Beachview Hotel for a bowl of her favorite Minghella ice cream, served up in knickerbocker glory glasses at a table for two, overlooking the dimming horizon of the sea.
“Shouldn’t we tell Dad?” she asks, looking suddenly concerned. “He might worry—you know?”
He never used to worry, I think, not before Daisy disappeared. “It’s fine. I saw him in town at lunchtime and said I might take you for a treat after school.”
She relaxes, her shoulders dropping slightly as she leans in to take a first taste of her ice cream. She looks so young, despite all the grown-up things she’s been getting herself into—the boyfriend, the drinking, the secrets and lies—and it’s clear to me that she’s still just a little girl, vulnerable to life’s ills.
“How are you doing, Chlo?” I ask.
She shrugs, refilling her spoon. “Pretty shit. Some of the kids at school have been saying I’m going out with a pedo. That I’m shagging a pedo. Yesterday, one of my best friends tried to defend me to someone by saying that they should cut me some slack because I was the victim. Which was nice.”
I don’t know what to say, and I stare at her across the table, shocked.
“And some of them think Mum or Dad did it—took Daisy and killed her or something—because of the papers, because of all the bollocks the newspapers say.”
I can see the headlines, running across my mind’s eye like a newsreel ticker: WHO TOOK BABY DAISY? . . . DAISY’S PARENTS—MORE QUESTIONS ARE ASKED . . . DAISY’S SISTER’S BOYFRIEND BEATEN—IS HE GUILTY? . . . DAISY’S NANNY INTERVIEWED IN POLICE PROBE . . . a fresh one daily, it seems; it’s no wonder her classmates are saying these things, when there’s a new line of inquiry every day, a new dead end, a new flare of hope, a new false start.
“Today this one little dick in history said, It’s got to be one of you—it’s always someone in the family, and I swear I would’ve kicked him in the nuts if sir hadn’t come in at that moment and broken it up.” Chloe jams her spoon into her ice cream, and I realize I haven’t touched mine yet.
“They’re all just idiots, Chloe, you know that.” I take a careful spoonful, building up to asking her about the one thing I know she doesn’t want to speak about. “So what’s the latest with you and Max?”
Chloe puts her spoon down, and for a moment, I think she might just walk out. But instead she takes a deep breath and begins to talk. “You might not believe this, Jess, but he’s beside himself. He says it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him—worse than his parents’ divorce, or when his cousin died of cancer—the worst thing. He’s had ‘nonce’ scratched into the side of his car and death threats on his Facebook page—and, since he got beaten up, everyone assumes he must be guilty, and people are openly talking about him on Instagram. Like he’s already been convicted of it, like he’s a sex offender. He had to delete his accounts in the end. Why are people like that?”
I let the silence hang between us for a moment, hoping she’ll carry on.
“And I can’t tell you how many times he’s told me he’s sorry about those things he took. I mean, they weren’t even important things—they weren’t even worth anything.”
I frown at her across the table. “That’s not exactly the point, is it, Chloe? You invited him into your home, and he stole from your family. He stole from you. You’ve got to agree, that’s pretty crappy.”
Her eyes remain downcast, and she nods, and I hope she won’t cry; I couldn’t bear to be the cause of her tears when she’s going through so much already. Eventually, she looks up and says, “I hate him for that—but I love him too, and I just don’t know what to do, Jess?” She says it like a question, as though she thinks I have the answers. But I don’t. She lowers her voice, her eyes flickering across the faded Art Deco dining room. “I know he took those things—stole those things—but that doesn’t make him a kidnapper, does it? Or a rapist!”
She’s referring to Emily’s words on Saturday, when she told DCI Jacobs that she wanted Max charged with rape. Chloe hasn’t spoken to her stepmother since, and I’ve watched them in the days that have passed and wondered, is this it for them—can they never be close again? Has too much been said, too much hurt been inflicted? Or would Daisy’s safe return heal it all, wash it all away? I’m not sure; I’m not sure Chloe can ever forgive Emily for the things she has said. And I’m certain Emily will never forgive Chloe for bringing Max into their lives.
“I know he’s not, Chlo. I met him—he seems nice—you seemed good together. But it’s probably best if you keep a low profile when it comes to Max at the moment, until Emily’s forgiven you for lying to them about New Year’s Eve. Just keep out of her way a bit, until she’s in a better place.”
“A better place? I hate her. It’s not just this, not just since Daisy, you know? But then, you wouldn’t know because you weren’t here before, when she used to be nice—she used to be like you. I don’t know what it is, but gradually she just changed toward me, got colder. She stopped hugging me or wanting to do things together, and she didn’t want to know what I’d been up to at school or anything, and she’d always be complaining to Dad about how lazy or messy or ungrateful I am. And I know I’m not that bad—”
“You’re not bad at all, Chloe! You’re a wonderful, precious girl. Please remember that. Don’t let other people lure you into thinking otherwise. You’re a good person.”
I think about Emily in our childhood years, and the way she could punish, pushing me away with such frost that in the end I’d do anything to return to the warmth of her embrace. She could make me feel that I was all kinds of things I wasn’t, make me question everything I thought I knew about myself. But I understood Emily better than anyone—and I knew how it worked. Chloe doesn’t know how to play this game. It’s not a level playing field.
Chloe is plaiting her fingers together on the table between us, and I’m suddenly worried that it sounds as though I’m badmouthing Emily. “You’ve got to understand, Chloe, Emily’s going through hell at the moment. She had her heart ripped out that night Daisy was taken—and she’s suspicious of everyone. Even me.”
Chloe pulls a face. “You?”
“Yes, me! She watches my every move; haven’t you noticed? But it’s not just me. It’s you, your dad, the nanny, Max—I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t take it personally. We’ve all just got to concentrate on staying positive until we get Daisy back, and then we can all get back to normal again.”
Now Chloe does cry, a tear coursing down the side of her nose as she pushes her half-finished dessert away. “Will we get her back, Jess? What if she’s—I couldn’t stand it if she’s . . .” And then the words run out because Chloe can’t say the words either; none of us wants to say the words.
“Of course we’ll get her back,” I say, and I know in that instant that I’d give my life for Daisy’s in a heartbeat. I reach across to cover Chloe’s hand with mine.
With her other hand, Chloe runs a finger beneath her lashes. “I wish you were my mum, Jess,” she says. “I wish we could get D
aisy back—and I wish Emily would vanish—and I wish you could stay with us forever.”
“Three wishes?” I laugh, patting her hand as I catch the waitress’s attention for the bill. “Careful what you wish for, Chloe-boo.”
* * *
On the drive home, we share a companionable silence, and I think about Chloe’s shock at Emily’s suspicions, my mind returning to an afternoon in late October, not long after I’d moved in, when I walked in on Emily rifling through James’s paperwork while he was out at work. It was a stormy, cold day, and the rain was lashing hard against the windowpanes of his study as I pushed open the door to wheel in the vacuum cleaner, surprised to find Emily standing over James’s desk, lifting papers from his in-tray. I wouldn’t have thought much more of it had she not looked so overwhelmingly guilty and embarrassed.
“Jeez, you made me jump!” she said, after that first wordless pause of shock, and she dropped the papers back into their tray and tucked the chair beneath the desk with purpose. “I was looking for some of the solicitor’s papers to do with Mum’s will,” she blurted, but I knew she wasn’t telling the truth. “You haven’t seen them, have you?”
“Which papers are you after?” I asked.
She stared back at me, stumped. I plugged in the vacuum and was about to get started when instinct made me reach out and touch her arm as she went to leave. “Is everything all right, Ems? You look a bit, I don’t know—freaked out.”
At first, I thought she wasn’t going to tell me, but then it all came spilling out: how she had nothing concrete to go on, nothing more than a gut feeling, but she thought James could be cheating on her. That he could be having an affair.
Of course I talked her around, told her she must be imagining it because James was one of the nicest, most trustworthy, loyal people I’d ever met. And I was glad when she seemed reassured by my words, and she thanked me for listening, and we hugged, and the subject never arose again. Was I right to reassure her? I wonder now, my thoughts lighting on his late arrival home on New Year’s Eve. Where had he been, and why would he actively lie about it to the police? If he was having an affair, surely Emily would have brought it up again, and I’m certain she would have told the police that they didn’t arrive home together that night, out of anger if nothing else.
Unless . . . I think with a shudder as we pull into the driveway and park in front of the house, the thought faltering as I unbuckle my seat belt and see James smiling at us from the open doorway. Chloe is craning her neck to look up at the gap in the curtains of the nursery window, and there is Emily: pale and haunted, a ghost in her own house. Unless, the thought returns to me, unless they both have something to hide.
16
Emily
The banging at the front door is so loud that Emily’s first, heart-pounding thought is, They’ve found her, they’ve found Daisy! James is out of bed before she is, throwing back the covers and leaping to his feet to stand naked in the gloomy morning light, hooking back a small gap in the curtain to look out onto the front drive. There’s a short pause before the knocking resumes.
“Who is it?” Emily whispers, easing her heavy legs from the bed and reaching for her dressing gown.
“Dunno,” James replies as he drops the curtain drape. He picks up his jeans and hurriedly begins to dress. “There’s a whole load more journalists outside the gate, though. Something must have happened.”
Emily follows him as he rushes from the bedroom and down the stairs, passing a bleary-eyed Chloe on the landing as they go. They jog down, one after the other, so that when James opens the front door, they are a welcome party of four, looking their morning worst, not caring about the snarling photographers who trespass on the driveway to snap their reactions to the police officers standing on the doorstep.
DCI Jacobs steps over the threshold, beckoning DC Piper and another officer to follow suit, swiftly shutting the door against the media intrusion.
“What is it?” Emily asks, her desperation laid bare in a strangled voice. Please God, please God, please God.
DCI Jacobs’s expression is steely, and she casts her gaze over every one of them, assessing the situation, clearly weighing what she can say in front of them all. “Mr. and Mrs. King, can I speak to you alone in the kitchen?”
Emily and James exchange anxious nods, indicating for the detective to follow them through, leaving the two officers to hover in the dining room with Jess and Chloe. The worktop is a mess, its surface strewn with Jess’s cereal bowl and milk slops. There’s a coffee cup and a left-out juice carton—and, beside the sink, two wineglasses, their ruby-stained dregs dried on from the night before. Emily’s eyes linger on the empty wine bottle. She took a sleeping pill last night and went to bed early, leaving Jess and James to clear up after supper. As she headed for the stairs, Jess had told her to sleep well; James told her he’d be up soon.
“What’s happened?” Chloe calls after them from the dining room, and Emily steps out to shoot her a warning message. Back off, she wants to say. Back off, Chloe. As she returns to the kitchen, she hears her stepdaughter’s complaining voice against Jess’s reassuring murmurs, and then the sound of Chloe’s light footsteps retreating back up the stairs. Emily wants to know where Jess is; it makes her uneasy when she’s out of sight, listening, spying on their business.
“Tea?” James asks, distractedly opening up the dishwasher to clear away the dirty pots, and with a violent passion, Emily wants to lash out at him. Tea, for Christ’s sake!
“Is it about Marta Alvarez?” Emily asks, desperate to steer DCI Jacobs straight to the vital information. “You were interviewing her, weren’t you? What did you find out?”
The inspector shakes her head dismissively. “I’m afraid we hit a dead end with Miss Alvarez. While she has a poor track record as a nanny, she had a clear alibi for New Year’s Eve—she was babysitting for her new family, while they entertained at home. So she was there all night, with plenty of witnesses to back up her statement.”
Emily stares at her, a mixture of emotions buzzing through her veins. Disappointment? Relief? Anger? It’s all of these things, and more. “Did you tell her new employer about her past, about hurting that child? She’s clearly a danger around children!”
DCI Jacobs nods, curtly, indicating she won’t speak further on the matter.
“And Max Fuller?” James asks, his eyes flickering toward the archway into the dining room.
“Chloe’s upstairs,” Emily mutters. “Yes, what about him? What about Max—or Chloe, for that matter?”
James is horrified. “Emily? What the hell are you talking about?” He looks at the detective, his bright eyes a study of confusion.
“She’s hiding something, James, and if you can’t see it, you’re blind! Creeping about all the time, asking questions—trying to deflect suspicion with that bloody hashtag-find-Daisy campaign. You don’t want to see it, but she’s not telling us everything.”
James puts his head in his hands, raising his face as he gathers a breath. “I’m sorry, Inspector, I really don’t know what Emily’s saying. Chloe’s not under suspicion, is she?”
DCI Jacobs takes a moment to answer. She’s assessing us, Emily thinks, she’s trying to read us, but she’ll never be successful. There’s too much going on here, too many secrets, too many half-truths and downright lies.
“Chloe’s not a suspect, no.”
Emily doesn’t like the way she puts emphasis on the word “Chloe,” as though something else is coming, and it is, it so is coming—
“Chloe’s not a suspect because she can pretty well account for her movements for that night. You two, on the other hand—well, we received some information last night that suggests you haven’t been entirely honest with us in the statements you’ve given.”
“What?” James is incredulous. “About what? What information?”
“Both of us?” Emily interjects, the panic rising up in her like a flush of nausea. “I don’t understand!” She grips the worktop with one
hand, the other coming instinctively to her mouth, to gnaw on her ragged thumbnail as she waits for all the answers she doesn’t want to hear.
“Yes, both of you.” DCI Jacobs pauses in that horrible, watchful way she has. She seems to be soaking up their thoughts, gauging their responses for signs of deceit. “I can’t go into it here, Mr. and Mrs. King. But I can tell you that this new information has also been backed up by independent sources—other people who were at the party with you on New Year’s Eve—so naturally we’re going to have to interview you further to make sure we’ve got all our facts straight.”
“Both of us?” Emily asks again. She can’t believe this is happening. Most chilling of all, she lights on the use of “Mr. and Mrs. King.” No more Emily. No more James. Now it’s Mr. and Mrs. King.
James is shaking his head. Emily looks on, barely able to blink as she tries to process what’s happening in her kitchen. Her mind is in overload. Do they think we took Daisy? Do they think we are guilty? Do they?
“Who has given you this information?” James demands, raising his voice, his arms folding across his body, his stature growing large. “What information?”
“I can’t go into it here,” Jacobs replies firmly, unruffled. She’s not a woman who is easily stirred, and she continues, businesslike, matter-of-fact. “We’ll interview you at the station this morning and hopefully clear it up once and for all. Do you need a few minutes to get dressed?” She looks at Emily in her dressing gown. “To gather your things?”
We’re not under arrest. Emily feels as though her legs might give way beneath her. If we were under arrest, they wouldn’t say “gather your things,” would they? They’d just bundle us into the police car and take us away. Were not under arrest.
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