Missing Molly

by Natalie Barelli

  “Do you think it’s a tech issue with the hotline?” Chris asks.

  “I don’t know, but I can reach him through Reddit,” I say. “If he’s real, that is.”

  Chris nods. “Good. Get on it.”

  I’m about to leave the room when Chris says, “How did you get on with Hennessy, Vivian?”

  I sit back down. “Hennessy?”

  “Yeah, I spoke to him,” Vivian says.

  “Edward Hennessy?” My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised they can’t hear it.

  “What did he say?” Chris asks.

  “He was really helpful, actually. He explained how hard they tried to find her back then. Put their whole police force onto it. For months. But they never got an inkling of where she disappeared to. He thinks Dennis Dawson probably killed her but of course the body was never found. She was just a child. He blames himself.”

  I wince.

  “You didn’t tell me you spoke to Hennessy,” I say, trying not to spit on his name.

  “I am now,” she replies, her head cocked at me. “Why?”

  “I just thought that we were working on this together. Thelma and Louise, remember?”

  They both shoot me a funny look.

  “It just so happened that you weren’t here when he called me, what do you want me to say?”

  “What else did he say?” Chris asks.

  “He couldn’t shed much light on where she might be or what might have happened to her. He doesn’t think we’ll ever find her. His money is on Dennis Dawson having killed her and buried her somewhere.”

  Yeah, I bet.

  “But, we talked about the older sister, Grace, quite a bit. It’s funny,” she turns to me, “I hadn’t made the connection before, that Molly’s sister is called Grace, just like Gracie.”

  “Why is that funny?” I ask. It was an innocuous thing to say, a matter-of-fact remark. She didn’t mean anything by it, I know that, but I can’t look at her.

  She shrugs. “It’s not. Just a figure of speech.”

  “So? What did he say? About Grace?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “It was a bit sad, actually. We were talking about motive. He said a bunch of stuff that never made it into the papers at the time, but apparently Grace was—how did he put it? Secretly promiscuous. Easy with the boys I think he said.”

  I flinch. “Seriously? He said that?”

  “He’s very old school, I gather. He said there were vague whispers back then, that she’d been caught behaving inappropriately, but he hadn’t been paying attention to gossip. I said to him, it was twelve years ago, maybe more a sign of the times, you know? The way she dressed or whatever, maybe people jumped to conclusions, it’s a small town, but he said no, it was nothing like that. As it turned out, there were pictures. Of her. He almost made it sound like she brought it on herself through her actions, you know the type of talk?”

  “No!” It just comes out of me, but Vivian misunderstands my burst of anger for shock.

  “Yeah, I know, I was surprised too! He said they kept it out of the papers for obvious reasons.”

  “What kind of pictures?”

  “The kind that you don’t want your mum and dad to see. She posed. For blokes. For money, apparently. ‘Playboy would have hesitated to publish them’ he said. I thought he meant because she was so young, but he said, no, because they were that pornographic.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Chris lets out a whistle. “Did you record the conversation?”

  “Of course.”

  “We can’t use that!” I almost shout. “We don’t even know if it’s true!”

  “Of course we do.”

  “How? Have you seen the photos?”

  “I don’t need to see them, Rach. He was the Chief Constable at the CID. He’s the Mayor now. I think we can take his word for it, don’t you?”

  Chris laughs at something Vivian says, and Vivian laughs with him.

  “Is something wrong, Rach?” Vivian asks. I’d been looking at my hands in my lap. I look up at her.

  “Don’t you find it strange,” I begin, “that Grace and Hennessy’s son were dating when she died?”

  Vivian winks at me. “That’s right. They were. Glad to see you’re on the ball.” She flicks through pages of her notebook. “Hugo Hennessy.”

  I feel myself grow pale at the sound of his name. “So Edward Hennessy just told you Grace Forster was a—” I almost say slag “—easy with the boys. And yet he let his son date her?”

  She thinks about it but only for a second.

  “He said there were only whispers, gossip he called it. He said he hadn’t paid attention to it at the time.”

  “But you bring up a good point, Rachel,” Chris says. “Have you tried to talk to the son, Vivian?”

  “I did ask Hennessy senior about it, but he said don’t even try. It wasn’t easy on him, losing his girlfriend in such tragic circumstances, and—”

  “His secretly promiscuous girlfriend you mean,” I blurt before I have time to stop myself.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Vivian snaps.

  I raise one hand up. “Sorry.”

  “Anyway,” she resumes, “I’ll keep trying. It would be a scoop, right? He’s never spoken publicly about it.”

  Over my dead body.

  “Does Edward Hennessy have any other suggestions? Of who we could talk to?” Chris asks.

  “Not really, as I said before, he thinks we’re wasting our time. Molly’s dead and Dawson killed her.” She sighs. “I’m not having much luck lining up some good interviews, but I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Chris claps once. “Okay! Fantastic work. We might not have anything new on Molly herself yet—”

  “But we do,” I interrupt. “We have the post from that girl who knew her, the one in Canada.”

  “I don’t think it’s real, Rachel. Given the chap that’s a private detective disproved it. It’s probably a prank, kids or something. But we need to track down that bloke.”

  I nod. So much for controlling the conversation.

  “We’ve got some good audio anyway, with the Hennessy interview. If we don’t get anything on Molly for episode 2, we’ll have plenty to talk about with Grace.”

  “You’re going to play that?” I ask, incredulous.

  “You’re kidding? Of course we are! It’s new material! It’s great!” Vivian says.

  We are done here, it’s over. My attempt at shutting this down failed royally. No one believes my online post, supposedly from a friend of Molly in Canada. It’s turned out to be a complete waste of time. I wish I could crumple the post, like a piece of paper. I picture myself reaching into the screen and doing it.

  Fifteen

  Had Hugo Hennessy not murdered my sister Grace, she would have turned twenty-eight next month. I was the baby of the family. I don’t think I was planned, but if I was an accident, I’m sure I was a happy one.

  Grace was beautiful. She had blond wavy hair and blue eyes, and dimples when she smiled.

  Hugo was two years older than her. The first time I saw them together was at a local soccer game. We’d all gone as a family. Dad liked to support local sport activities. I think he even gave money to the club. I can still picture Hugo standing on the sidelines in his soccer outfit, watching players practice a few moves, his hands on his waist. He exuded so much confidence he might as well have been the coach. He was very handsome, like, look twice handsome, with blond hair that he was always pushing off his forehead and a square jaw that reminded me of a character in a comic book.

  We were all seated and he waved to Grace, who waved back. When I turned to look at her, she was blushing. After the game we got up to leave, my dad talked to someone he knew, and suddenly Hugo was there. He was very polite, and after he said hello to my parents he started to chat to Grace. They looked like the perfect couple. I don’t know how they met, at school I suppose, and not long after t
hat soccer game, they started dating.

  I think the whole concept of dating has changed a lot in the last twelve years. I’d be surprised if he and Grace were having sex, but then again, she wouldn’t have told me. For them, dating would have meant a trip to movies, or a walk somewhere, maybe a bike ride, but all I know is that he started to spend more and more time at our house. He was always nice to me. Always nice to everyone actually. Mum loved him. Dad thought he had excellent manners.

  It was a few weeks after they first met that I happened to be in Grace’s room one night when she came out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around her. There were marks on her upper arm, like dark bruises.

  “What’s that?” I asked, reaching to touch it. She flicked my hand away.

  “Nothing!”

  It wasn’t very long after that that he killed her.

  That evening at dinner, I barely say a word. The third time Matt asks if I’m okay, I almost snap.

  “I’m fine! Really!” I say too quickly, then I see the hurt on his face. “Sorry, love. Just a lot going on at work, you know.”

  I could tell he’s put out, by the way he plays with his food for a bit. I want to reach out, lean into him, but I just can’t.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s really going on, Rach. Ever since we’ve been back from our holiday, you’ve been acting weird.” He pushes the plate away and crosses his arms.

  “No I haven’t.”

  “When’s the last time you’ve been to see Barbara?”

  “Really? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re not yourself. Just tell me.”

  “Last Tuesday, Matt, same as always, same as every other fucking week, okay?”

  I get up from the table and almost throw my plate into the sink. We barely speak the rest of the evening and now, in bed, he won’t even look at me. He has his back to me, and when I lay a hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it off.

  I keep thinking about the private detective that was looking for me. I knew I couldn’t convince Vivian and Chris that he wasn’t real. The problem is, he was telling the truth, he must have been, because I was in Spain in 2012.

  Terrible things happened there and at the time, I didn’t think they were related to Hugo or Molly. But now I don’t know anymore. And if there is a connection, then I’m really worried about what’s going to happen to Vivian.

  The thing about Vivian is that she’s very good at everything she does. She’s taking everything at face value right now, everything that Hennessy says. But at some point, she’s going to look for Molly. Really look. And she’s going to ask questions, and she’s going to want answers, and Edward Hennessy is not going to like it.

  And if she gets too close to the truth, they’ll kill her.

  Sixteen

  I watch Chris type, one index finger at a time, looking from the keyboard to the screen, and back again. That’s how he types, and he’s never made an effort to learn, or even to speed things up.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Jesus, Rachel! You scared me. How long have you been standing there?”

  I ignore the question and close the door behind me.

  “Sorry. Do you have a second?”

  “Not a lot more, what is it?”

  I pick up a rubber band from a small receptacle on the desk and start playing with it, looking for the right words. Chris leans backwards in his chair. I have his full attention.

  “It's about the podcast. I…”

  He lets out a puff of frustration. I steamroll over it.

  “I did some digging. Over the last few days.” I pull out a piece of paper from my pocket. I unfold it slowly and I lay it flat on the desk, smoothing out its creases.

  “There,” I say, pushing it towards him. “It’s the phone number of Molly’s schoolteacher.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mrs Callaghan, that’s her name. She’s retired, but she still lives there. Molly was in her class.” I tap the piece of paper with my finger. “The number’s current. I checked.”

  I don’t remember what Mrs Callaghan looks like exactly, but I remember I liked her. We all did, in my class. I figured it wouldn’t do any harm if she got on the podcast. What could she possibly say? That she knew me, and I was an average student?

  I called Directory Enquiries and found two Mrs Callaghans in the town. I rang them both. I pretended I was doing a survey on behalf of the local council to do with public transport. I knew the second I heard her voice that she was the right one. It’s funny, the things you remember. For me, it’s the sound of voices. Anyway, it didn’t take much for her to tell me she was a retired schoolteacher, and that more public transport would be a brilliant idea.

  Chris is holding the piece of paper as if there’s more to read than a bunch of numbers.

  “That’s good stuff, Rach. How did you get that? Vivian called the school, but they wouldn’t give out any information.”

  “I have a source. And this, it’s just the beginning.”

  He smiles. “A source? Really?”

  I nod.

  “That's great. Well done. Vivian must be thrilled.” He looks through the glass pane towards Vivian's desk. I turn around and do the same. She’s on the phone, making notes, oblivious to our stares.

  “She doesn't know yet,” I say. “There’s a problem.”

  “Do they want money?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “What then?”

  “Well, it’s like this. This source only wants to speak to me. They said they’ll get me interviews and all they know, but only if it was me so… I want to be a producer on this podcast.”

  He thinks about it for a moment, then he says, “Do you know what a producer does?”

  I feel myself blushing. “No, but we all have to start somewhere.”

  “Can you even handle the workload? It’s not like you don’t have a lot on your plate already.”

  “Yes, I can. I know I can,” I reply.

  He looks at me, silently, and shakes his head. “I don’t get it. Why won’t you tell me how you got that info?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I did. Trust me.”

  “Well, if you bring in this kind of material, I don’t see why not.”

  I let out a breath of relief.

  “Thanks, Chris. Also, I want to be part of all the decisions, like who we interview, what direction we take with the podcast, all of that.” I bite the inside of my lip.

  Chris leans back in his chair. “Vivian's in charge.”

  “I know, and I want us to work together, and make decisions together.”

  “She’s got a lot more experience than you, Rach. What’s the problem?”

  “There is no problem.”

  “We can make you a producer and still have Vivian be the lead. I don’t mind giving you the opportunity, but you’ll learn a lot more that way.”

  I’m doing this all wrong but I’m in too deep now.

  “And if I say no?” he says.

  “Then you say no, but why would you? I have a lot to contribute to this project.” I point at the number with my chin.

  Chris narrows his eyes at me. “You surprise me. I didn’t pick you for being so ambitious. Not like this.”

  I feel my tears well up, and I will them away. “Call the number,” I say.

  He dials the number and puts it on speakerphone.

  “Hello?”

  My heart skips a beat.

  “Is this Mrs Callaghan?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Mrs Callaghan, were you Molly Forster’s primary school teacher?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “We’re producing a podcast about the disappearance of Molly Forster. We’d like to interview you. Is that possible?”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Can I get someone to call you and make a time?”

  “Yes, I—I don’t know. I have to go.”

  “
Thank you, Mrs Callaghan, we’ll be in touch soon.”

  He hangs up, then without looking at me, he says, “You drive a hard bargain there, Rachel. What about hosting, is Vivian still doing that? Or do you want to be the voice of the podcast too?”

  If I could leave Vivian out altogether, I would. She’d hate me for life, and I'd have to live with that. But there’s no way Chris will let me host it. He’s only asking because if I say yes, he’ll tell me to go back to my bookkeeping and never to mention this again. Or he’ll fire me.

  “Vivian is still doing that. She’s the best person for that job.”

  “It’s big of you to say, Rachel.”

  He taps the end of his pen on the desk. Tap tap tap tap. I want to lean over and snatch it away.

  “I tell you what,” he says, “I’ll talk to Vivian, and see what she says. If she’s okay with it, we’ll give it a go. For one episode, to begin with. Either way, it’s just a trial, you understand? And I’m not paying you any more, you got that?”

  “Yes.”

  He gives a small nod and goes back to his computer screen. I watch the slow one-finger typing. I figure we’re done here.

  “It was her idea, you know.”

  My hand is already on the door handle.

  “The podcast?”

  “No, of course not. I told you already. I meant for you to be involved. That was her idea.”

  He doesn’t lift his eyes from his task, one finger painstakingly searching for the right key, then the other. I thank him and walk out.

  I go right over to Vivian. I have to tell her, and I want to find a way to soften the blow, but just as I reach her I hear Chris behind me call out to her.

  She looks up, walks over to him, raises a questioning eyebrow at me on the way. I want to find a way to explain but instead I shrug a timid smile. I find that I am relieved after all, that Chris will tell her instead of me.

  I watch them through the glass pane of Chris's office, while pretending not to. I’m scribbling randomly on a notepad.

  At first, she stands quietly, listening to Chris, then she starts gesticulating. I can hear her voice become louder but I can’t make out what she’s saying. Later when she walks past me she doesn’t look at me. I extend a hand.