Missing Molly

by Natalie Barelli

  “That’s more like it,” Matt mutters. We sit down on the wooden bench. He puts his arm around my shoulders. I wait a moment then I ask again.

  “So? What did you think?”

  “Yeah, he’s a nice guy I thought. I hope it works out.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I say, after a pause.

  Some of Matt’s friends are coming over this afternoon to watch a game at our place. The group includes Fred and Milly, a nice couple who have a child just a few weeks older than Gracie, so the two of them can enjoy the afternoon together.

  “Why don’t we ask Vivian and Peter to come over too? Watch the game with us?” I suggest. The pitch of my voice has gone up an octave.

  “I don’t know, depends,” he replies.

  “On what?”

  “On what side he’s on,” he turns to me and smiles. I laugh, or I try to. It comes out like a cackle.

  I text Vivian again:

  You and Peter want to come over and keep me company this afternoon? Matt + mates watching the game.

  I don’t need to wait long for a reply.

  Peter left for weekend now. Im free tho! :) Xx

  Great! See you later x

  Vivian’s idea of fun is no more watching a soccer game than, say, watching grass grow. She and I are like-minded on that front. So while Milly and the boys shout and whoop in the living room, we retreat to the kitchen, with two tumblers and that nice bottle of red she’s brought along. Hair of the dog, she said.

  “I won’t mention it again I swear, but you okay now?” she asks. There is pity in her eyes.

  I look away. “Of course. I’m totally fine. Crowded clubs, you know.”

  “You should tell that boyfriend of yours to take you out to better places.”

  “I thought the exact same thing,” I say and smile.

  “You should tell your shrink though, she could prescribe something I’m sure,” she continues, scratching an invisible mark from the top of the kitchen table.

  “That part where you don’t mention it again, when does that start?” I mean to say it lightly, but it comes out more aggressively than that. She flicks her eyes up at me.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  “No, it’s me. I’m embarrassed, that’s all. You’re totally right, I should tell Barb when I see her next time. And I will.”

  “And you’ll ask her about some meds?”

  “I promise.” I squeeze her hand. What else can I say? Meds won’t help, Viv, it’s your new boyfriend that’s the problem.

  I top up our glasses. “Tell me about this new man of yours, that’s much more fun.”

  She grins, lifts her shoulders. “He’s hot, right?!” she laughs.

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “He’s different from the guys I normally date. He’s more, I don’t know. Mature.”

  “That’s great!” I say too brightly. “How did you meet him? You said he’s a friend of Jenny’s?”

  She frowns in confusion. “Did I?”

  “Or you met him through Jenny, I think you said.”

  “Ah, no I meant, Jenny and I were together. We went to the Cat & Mutton last Friday night and by the time I got our drinks, the two of them were chatting. When she introduced me, I thought he was a friend of hers, but they’d only just met, right there and then. Lucky she’s already taken, hey?”

  “Wait, you’ve only known him a week?”

  “I know, right? Feels like I’ve known him since forever!”

  I feel the chill down my spine. He must have waited for her outside the building where we work, and followed them to the pub.

  She tells me about that day, that they stayed out most of the night together, and ended up walking the streets at 3 a.m. laughing and holding hands. She tells me he texts her all the time, just a kiss sometimes, to show her he’s thinking about her and isn’t that the sweetest thing? Of course Vivian always falls head over heels within five minutes of kissing a guy. Tommy had been no different. And when she tells me that he’s going to help her with her troll, because ‘he’s good with computers, he says he can probably find out who’s harassing me’, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s him, sending Vivian these creepy messages.

  “So you’ve seen a lot of him?”

  “He’s been at my place most nights, put it that way.” She grins.

  “What’s his place like?” I ask, thinking it’s a smarter question than ‘where does he live?’

  “Don’t know, he prefers to come stay with me. He lives in a flat in Peckham I think.”

  “Peckham’s nice.”

  “Is it? I don’t think I’ve ever been there.”

  I smile.

  “Anyway, it’s only temporary, he’s only just moved to London, so at some point he’ll get a more long-term place.”

  “Huh. Where did he move from?” I ask, replenishing our tumblers. There’s an explosion of noise coming from the living room. Someone must have scored a goal, on the wrong side.

  “Birmingham. Do you have any crisps or something?”

  I rummage through the cupboards until I find an unopened packet of pretzels.

  “What about this? I’ve also got some crackers and some nice cheese to go with them.”

  “Perfect.”

  I open the fridge, and ask, “What does he do?” before pulling some cheddar from the cheese compartment. I set it onto a wooden cutting board, along with a couple of knives while Vivian opens the packet of crackers.

  “He’s in finance, something, not sure.”

  I grab a knife and cut a small piece of cheese.

  “Finance? That’s good, right? Which company, do you know?” I pop the cheese into my mouth.

  She cocks her head at me. “What’s with all the questions, Rach?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re supposed to ask me what the sex is like, not his job title.”

  “Sorry. Just want to make sure he’s a good catch.”

  She stares at me for a second longer than necessary. “What is it? Come on, out with it!”

  “Nothing! I don’t know him enough to like him, or not like him!” But I can see I’ve hurt her feelings. I put my hand on top of hers and squeeze. “I’m sure he’s wonderful. I’m just looking after you, that’s all.”

  She purses her lips and bites the side of her mouth, then she says, “He’s twenty-eight.”

  I cut up another piece of cheese, thinking that he’s not twenty-eight. He’s a liar.

  “I asked him,” she continues. “This morning. So you see, he’s not that much older than me.”

  “I didn’t say he was.”

  “Yes Rach, you did! Last night!”

  I don’t remember saying that, but then again, a lot of the night had ended up on the blurry end of my memory.

  "Has he been married before?" I ask, thinking that, at least, is more of an expected question, but Vivian's had enough.

  "Jeez, Rachel! I don’t know. Give it a rest, okay?" She shakes her head in annoyance, knocks her drink back and finishes it in one gulp. I look at her straight on.

  “I’m looking after you. I want to make sure he’s a good guy.”

  “You’ve never done this with anyone else I’ve dated. Why now? I just met him! We’re getting to know each other! What’s the problem?”

  “He’s come out of nowhere, and you hardly know him.”

  “It’s called dating in the twenty-first century. And anyway, you hardly knew Matt but that didn’t stop you from spending every waking moment with him the minute you met! You’re not making any sense!”

  She’s right of course. I’m doing this all wrong.

  “I won’t mention it again, okay? But I have a bad feeling about this guy. There. I said it. I’m sorry, Viv, I love you, you know that. But be careful, okay? That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Can we get to the part where you don’t mention it again?”

  I chuckle, but she doesn’t. Fred bursts into the room laughing. He stops abruptly when he
sees us, as if he’d forgotten we were there.

  “Hey, what are you two doing in here? You should come and join us!” He opens the fridge and pulls out a six pack of beer. Vivian gets up.

  “Come on, Rach, let’s go and watch the game.”

  Thirty-Three

  I told Matt we needed some groceries. He was writing emails and making calls. He didn’t ask anything, just waved. And now I’m back at the Internet place near my flat. I’m desperate. I have to find a link between Peter and Hugo Hennessy, somehow, so I’m thinking that if I can get hold of a current photograph, I might be able to convince her. It feels like a stupid idea, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

  “Can I get fifteen minutes of Internet?” I ask, handing the money over. I need to be quick. I hope fifteen minutes is enough.

  “Sure.” The young woman behind the counter hands me a ticket with a number on it and something on her hand sparks a memory in me. It’s her tattoo. I follow the ink up her arm, which is partly covered in an intricate garden of flowers.

  I’ve seen this arm before. I look up into her face. There’s a flash of recognition for both of us.

  I was about fourteen, we were both living in the same shelter, a big ramshackle of a house that had something like twenty homeless kids at any one time, where someone was always looking to steal your stuff and the locks were always broken.

  She barely acknowledges me, and I do the same, but we both have that look on our faces. Somewhere in between pride and pleasure. That’s what it’s like to find that another one of us has escaped the fate that living on the streets holds. She’s got a job in a convenience store. It might not seem like much of an achievement to most people, but to people like us, it’s the path to independence, and the freedom that comes with it. I’m so proud of her I could hug her.

  She gives me a ticket and doesn’t charge me.

  I take the ticket and go out the back. I pick the computer that faces away from the front window, open a browser and type ‘Hugo Hennessy, Whitbrook’.

  The first relevant entry I find is a small news item from five years ago, about his father having been elected Mayor of Whitbrook. He’s standing on the steps of the town hall, flanked by his wife and son. The caption reads: Newly minted Mayor Hennessy with his wife Margot and son Hugo.

  The photo is in black and white and it’s been scanned from the original, as has the entire article. I peer at the picture. Even in its blurry state it makes me ill to look at him. Why is he preening about the place when my entire family is dead because of him? What kind of a sick parent would protect someone like him? I close my jaw, biting down so hard that my teeth hurt.

  I check that the printer behind me is working and not in use, then I send the page to it. There’s another item from around the same time that makes me gag.

  Edward and Margot Hennessy are pleased to announce the engagement of their son, Hugo, of Whitbrook, to Heather Donohue, daughter of Phil and Penelope Donohue, also of Whitbrook.

  I want to throw something heavy at the computer screen. I go back to the search results and keep looking for recent photos of him. There’s an older picture and I already have that one in my memory book. It’s a snapshot from my family’s funeral. Hugo is looking sombre and sad for the cameras. He is standing near my sister’s open grave, a hand over his chest, as if he’s making a silent prayer. I added that printout to my memory book not because I want to remember, but because I don’t want to forget.

  The other entries I’ve seen before, but I take a closer look at them now. They’re all about big scale developments in the area. There was some grumbling in the news because he’s the son of the mayor, but the mayor categorically denied any impropriety. All council transactions happen at arm’s length, etc. There’s an especially big land grab coming up for a shopping centre. There’s a picture of a man in a hardhat outside the old railway station and something nags at my memory, but I can’t catch it. Anyway, it’s not him. None of these entries have the photo I’m looking for: a clear, recent picture of Hugo Hennessy. It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose, always turning away from the camera.

  On my way out, I catch sight of the newspaper headline. I backtrack two steps and look at the stack.

  Emily Dawson’s suicide, who is responsible?

  I snatch a copy of the Mail from the rack and begin to read.

  The podcast trend started with the hugely successful Serial. We all gushed over it. ‘The podcast we’ve been waiting for, the greatest podcast ever made.’ At over a million downloads and counting, it fast became one of the most popular podcasts in the country.

  “Are you going to buy that?”

  I turn around. The young woman, the one with the tattoo, the one I’m so proud of, she’s staring pointedly at me. I fish out the right change and drop it on the counter, leave the store with my purchase and walk out. I turn the first corner and lean against a brick wall.

  Ever since, true crime podcasts have become the preferred pastime for armchair detectives. Everyone’s a sleuth and all that’s required is a smart phone and an iTunes account. Checks and balances? Who needs them?

  Missing Molly is no different. The new kid on the podcast block is fast becoming the topic du jour around water coolers everywhere, and while its production value is not without merit, its morals are. Whose idea was it to prod and poke and broadcast an interview with the mother of one of England’s most evil murderers? Mrs Dawson, mother of Dennis Dawson who was arrested for the murder of the Forster Family, and who confessed, unequivocally, to the killings, was found dead at her home last Saturday evening. A community worker charged with regular visits to Mrs Dawson became concerned when no one answered at her flat, and after a second attempt, returned with a locksmith.

  Mrs Dawson was found hanging from the light fitting of her bedroom ceiling. She left a note behind, speaking of her shame at being “England’s most hated mother” and explained how she took the opportunity of the podcast to rewrite history.

  A few days earlier, she had received a visit from the makers of Missing Molly, eager to interview her. And why not? The podcast is tasked with retracing the steps of the only member of the Forster family that wasn’t found that night. There has been plenty of conjecture in the past that Dennis Dawson killed Molly Forster as she ran away from the house and hid her body. Because Dawson committed suicide soon after being arrested, there was no opportunity to interrogate him in that regard. Extensive searches of the area failed to produce a body.

  What seemed to have happened here is that, given the opportunity to defend her son, Mrs Dawson concocted a story. She claimed that Dennis Dawson was in fact busy caring for her, his sick mother, while the family was murdered. But once that story reached the million listeners, the enormity of what she had done was too much for Mrs Dawson.

  It’s not for us to judge the morality of Mrs Dawson’s behaviour, and the lengths a mother will go to, to exonerate her child is nothing new.

  But is it right of the producers to trawl through a family’s grief, even offer hope of redemption because it makes for good listening? We believe that the South Hackney Herald has a lot to answer for. Maybe they should have stuck to what they do best: community bulletins.

  My chest is tight with anger as I shove the paper in the nearest bin. I quickly walk across to the supermarket and buy a handful of items, the groceries I’ve promised to get. How could they write this stuff? They didn’t even mention the receipts we photographed. We uploaded them on our website too, so that anyone could check them out.

  I need to talk to Jacob.

  But when I get home, Chris calls and says, “I know it’s Sunday today, Rachel, but can you come in anyway? We need to discuss our next move.” I tell him I don’t mind. I was expecting it.

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Before he hangs up he sighs. “What a mess.”

  A mess. That’s one way of putting it. The story is being picked up by every news outlet around the country. The Twitter-sphere is up in arms
. We’ve gone from ‘Molly’s last chance, the little newspaper that could’ to ‘shamelessly exploitative, how the South Hackney Herald killed the podcast’.

  There’s talk of ‘regulating the podcasting space’ and the ‘lack of journalistic rigour’ which is bad enough, but the chatter now has turned to ‘Vivian Brown’s credentials as an investigative journalist’. Vivian is getting the brunt of it. Jacob and I are also mentioned as producers, but other than the odd reproach—the liability rests with the producers—no one seems to care about us. They also don’t bring up the fact that Vivian wasn’t even there when we interviewed Mrs Dawson.

  We have to put out a statement and defend ourselves. Immediately. We’ve come this far, and we can’t get shy now. We have to press on. We have to identify the real killer.

  And at the same time, I have to protect Vivian, and my family, somehow.

  “I need to go to the office. Can you look after Gracie for a bit?” I ask Matt.

  “Really? Now? Can’t they get on with it without you? It’s your day off, Rach.”

  “Come on. You’ve seen the Internet, you’ve heard the news. We all need to put our heads together and try and fix this mess.” I cock my head sideways. “I need to be there. Please. It’s just for an hour.”

  “Tell them it will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “I can’t. I told you. It’s my job.”

  “Bullshit,” he mutters. “It’s this podcast. You’re obsessed, that’s what it is.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

  We stare at each other and he blinks first. He drops his shoulders, and adds, in a softer voice. “I try to talk to you, about anything, about Gracie even, and all I get is a vacant stare. It’s like you’re not here. If I walk into a room, you jump. You’re talking in your sleep—”