Missing Molly

by Natalie Barelli

  “That doesn’t count, I had too much to drink,” I joke.

  He takes my hand into his own and turns it over. “Your nails,” he says. “You’ve started biting them again.”

  I snatch my hand away and push both fists down into my jeans pockets.

  “No I’m not.”

  “I’m worried about you, Rachel.”

  “So don’t be!” I snap. I know exactly what he means. I’m worried you’ll do it again. I’m worried you’re losing the plot, just like last time.

  Sometimes I wonder if he will ever let me forget it. My episode.

  “I have to go,” I say quickly. What I really want to say is, don’t be an asshole.

  I gather my things without looking at him, but before I leave I say quietly, “Keep an eye on Gracie, Matt. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Just—please. Keep an eye on her. I’m asking.”

  Thirty-Four

  When I get to work, I go straight to Chris’s office and give the door a quick rap of the knuckles. Then I enter without waiting to be asked and almost bump into Jacob.

  “Rachel, good. Thanks for coming in,” Chris says.

  “No problem.”

  I feel like I’ve interrupted something but for some reason, they’re not bringing me into that conversation.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Chris says. “We need to record an extra episode, today,” he looks at his watch. “Rachel, if you could do it this afternoon, please.”

  Shit. I told Matt it would only be an hour.

  “But since we’re here, I think we should talk about what happened,” he continues, “and where to go from here.”

  “What about Vivian?” I ask.

  “She’s at home. She’s taking a couple of days off.”

  My heart skips a beat and I stand up quickly. “Is she okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course!” Chris replies. He makes a gesture with his hand for me to sit down again. “She’s staying away until the social media trolls find their next victim. She’s fine.” He puts his elbows on the desk and crosses his hands.

  “Okay, great.” I jump right in. “I know you wanted me to keep on the Molly angle, but I really think we need to concentrate our efforts on who really killed the Forster family. We need to look at anyone who had a relationship with the family, especially Grace. I think—”

  “Whoa, stop right there!” Chris has his hands up as if to stem the flow of my words. “We’re suspending the podcast completely, that’s what we’re doing.”

  “What? No!”

  “Yes! We’re recording a short episode this afternoon to say that the podcast is suspended until further notice. That’s why you’re here.”

  “But why?!” I whine.

  “Have you not been paying attention, Rachel? Everyone hates us!”

  “But we haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “The optics are not great,” Jacob says, shaking his head.

  “Fuck the optics,” I blurt out.

  “You think we’re going to survive this?” He throws the Mail on Sunday across the desk. “You think the sponsors are going to stick around? We’re putting the brakes on right now.”

  “Sponsors? This is about sponsors to you?”

  “Damn right! And it’s about sponsors to you too, Rachel, don’t kid yourself. I’ve made the decision. We’re shutting it down.”

  It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut. I look at Jacob. He’s staring at the floor.

  “But we know, Jacob and I, that she was telling the truth. Don’t we, Jacob? What about the receipts? The prescription? We photographed them! They’re on the website!”

  “We took them down.”

  “Why? It’s the proof!”

  “They’re fake, Rachel!” Chris snaps.

  “No, they’re not, Jacob—”

  “They may as well be! It’s not possible to say if the signature was genuine or not,” Chris says. “Not without the originals. It might have been Mrs Dawson who bought the medication, then tried to make it look like it was Dennis.”

  I look at Jacob, expecting him to jump in, to argue, but he just nods and looks uncomfortable.

  “Bullshit!” I snap.

  “That’s enough, Rachel. If you don’t want to record the extra episode, Jacob can do it.” He throws a pen on the desk. I’m waiting for Jacob to say something, anything. To back me up, but he’s too busy looking at his shoes.

  “I still think it’s worth pursuing—”

  “Rachel, I swear, if you don’t give it a rest I’m going to do something I won’t regret.”

  “Okay, fine! Give me the script.” I get up and put my hand out. “Please,” I add, belatedly. Chris pauses, then he rummages through the papers in front of him until he finds it, and hands it to me. There’s not a lot to it. It consists of one single paragraph and the generic closing line:

  The South Hackney Herald is deeply shocked at the suicide of Mrs Dawson. Though the fate of Molly Forster remains very much in our minds, we have resolved to suspend the production of Missing Molly until new evidence warrants its return. We want to assure our listeners and the community of the integrity of our efforts at all times.

  My name is Vivian Brown and you’re listening to Missing Molly.

  “Say your own name, not Vivian’s,” Chris says, pointing at the script.

  “Thanks Chris, I’d never have thought of it,” I snap before walking out. Jacob follows me. “Do you think she faked them?” I ask him once we’re out of earshot.

  “No.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”

  “So why didn’t you back me up in there, to Chris?”

  “Because it won’t make any difference. He doesn’t want to fight this battle.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Can I have a copy of the photos?”

  “Chris doesn’t want anyone to have a copy.”

  “Really?”

  He doesn’t reply. I wonder where’s the ‘I knew there was something’ bravado? ‘I could smell it!’ attitude.

  “I’ll go and record this—” I lift the script, “—piece of flash fiction, then we need to have a talk, you and me. There’s got to be something we can do. You fancy a coffee? My treat.”

  “Rachel, I’m not going to have a coffee with you. And we’re not going to talk or do anything. I’m in deep shit enough as it is. Don’t you get it? The podcast was my idea, remember? I need this job. I’m going to put my head down and wait for it all to blow over. And you should do the same.”

  He steps away from me, but I take hold of his sleeve, I grab it, close my fist tight around the fabric and lean close.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Hugo Hennessy was never interviewed by the police? He was the boyfriend, and according to Cindy McArthur, he was like a knight in shining armour. Couldn’t do enough for her. So why wasn’t he at the birthday party? And he happens to be the son of the then Chief Constable. And yet, he’s never made a statement. He’s never been asked.” I tap the side of my nose. “How’s your sense of smell, Jacob? Because there’s something there, I’m telling you.”

  I don’t mention Mrs Dawson, because I have yet to explain a way that the killer knew about the episode before it was available to the public. I’m wondering if Vivian told Peter what we got from Mrs Dawson.

  “We need to look at this guy,” I continue. “You and I know that Emily Dawson was telling the truth. It couldn’t have been Dennis, because he didn’t have the time. Think about it Jacob, someone’s out there.” I put my lips right next to his ear and whisper, “We’re getting close, and he knows it. The question is, are we going to let him get away with it?”

  I pull away, waiting for the penny to drop, but all I get for my troubles is a puzzled look. Then he shakes his head and walks away, leaving me standing there. I go to the makeshift recording studio, making a men
tal note to insert the word ‘alleged’ before the word ‘suicide’.

  In the darkened room, I pull my mobile from my pocket and call Vivian again. Something lifts inside me when I hear her voice. It’s the relief. After all, she’s spending a whole lot of time with a murderer, and she doesn’t have a clue.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey you, you’re okay?”

  She sighs. “Yes, I’m fine. Just, you know—”

  “Has anyone been bothering you?”

  “If you mean, has anyone been trolling me, then yes, resoundingly. Funny, three weeks ago I only had a dozen followers on Twitter, now half the world wants to come to my house and have sex with me.”

  I laugh softly but my heart is breaking. “Good to hear you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

  “Yeah well, fuck ‘em.”

  “That’s the spirit. Fuck ‘em. Trolls.”

  “I was talking about my parents, actually.”

  I really laugh. “Have they been in touch?”

  “Apparently they’re terribly embarrassed.”

  “Good,” I say.

  “Where are you anyway?”

  “In the office. We’re putting the podcast on hold, I’m just recording the announcement now.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard.”

  “You want me to come over after?”

  “No, don’t worry, I’m totally fine.”

  “You’re on your own?”

  She pauses. “Peter is coming over later,” she says finally.

  “Okay, good,” I say. What I really want to say is, Run, Vivian. He’s not real. He’s a killer. He’s going to hurt you. Please, trust me, and run.

  “I know you don’t like him, Rach,” and for a moment I wonder if I’ve spoken out loud, “but you know what?” she goes on, “You don’t know him. You barely spent enough time with him.”

  Neither of us speak. Finally, I say, “So come over for dinner, tomorrow night. With Peter.”

  There’s a short silence, then she says, “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I can make sure you’re—” I was about to say safe, “—okay and I can get to know Peter at the same time.”

  “You’re going to love him.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “I’m sure I will.”

  After we hang up I quickly record the podcast announcement, upload it to the feed and schedule it for 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, as per Chris’s instructions. Then I check our social media. As expected, there’s a fair number of accusatory comments, although not as many as I’d feared. There are even a couple of posts that suggest there was more to the story, and some of them even ask why would Mrs Dawson go to such lengths to exonerate her son, and then having been heard, recant and kill herself.

  But it’s the ones directed at Vivian that make my heart stop.

  I know where you live, you fucking bitch. I’m coming for you.

  Thirty-Five

  When I left work yesterday Chris said to take the morning off, and Matt let me sleep. It’s almost nine when I wake up, and the silence in our flat is heavy, like an accusation. I make my coffee and spot it on the kitchen table, the note, scrawled quickly on the pad we keep to jot down groceries.

  Gone to the park.

  He wants me to feel guilty. It’s working. Actually, I just feel left out. I can picture them, Gracie on the swing, squealing, wanting Matt to push her higher, Push me to the stars, Daddy! The other mothers looking on smiling.

  Has Matt even been looking for a job? If I said that, he would narrow his eyes at me, and ask me how he could possibly do that when I keep taking off, going to the office, making everything and everyone more important than him.

  Until this stupid podcast, I’d just about forgotten my name was Molly Forster. I got used to being Rachel Holloway, partner, mother, loved, safe. Now, I’m not just trying to save my own life, I’m trying to save everyone else as well.

  I pour my coffee into my favourite mug, which isn’t really my favourite, just the one I always use. My habitual mug. I fantasise about the truth coming out, about Hugo and his father getting arrested, about the headline in all the papers, Molly found, safe and sound. The police in our flat, a nice woman constable maybe, explaining to Matt who I really am, and that every lie I ever told him was to protect us.

  The printouts from yesterday morning are still in the inside pocket of my jacket. I pull them out and lay them flat on the table, smoothing the creases away. I peer at the grainy photo, trying to find Peter in Hugo’s face. I know it’s there. I just don’t know if anyone else will see it.

  I train my ear to the front door, just to make sure Matt and Gracie aren’t about to burst in the door. Then I grab my mobile, switch off my caller ID setting and call the offices of Lakeside Homes, where he works, supposedly. As if he didn’t own the place. In my best brisk, professional voice, I ask to speak to Hugo Hennessy.

  “May I ask who’s calling?” the equally brisk receptionist asks, and my heart skips a beat. Could he be there? Because if he is, then I may have been completely wrong about Peter. I’m pretty sure Vivian said he was in London today.

  “Mel Dutton, returning his call,” I say. Easier that way. I don’t have to explain where I’m calling from. If he comes on the line, I’ll just hang up.

  “Mr Hennessy is out on site today. Did you want to leave a message?” she asks.

  I breathe out, slowly.

  “No that’s fine, I’m on the road myself. Do you have a mobile number for him?”

  “Sorry, I can’t give out Mr Hennessy’s mobile number. I can take a message.”

  “No problem. I can try again later, when will he be back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll call back later.” I hang up.

  I call the other number I got, from an online directory this time. His home. I close my eyes, wishing the phone to just ring, maybe go to voicemail.

  “Hello?”

  She’s not brisk at all, she sounds bright, friendly even. So this must be Heather. The way she answered, confident and relaxed, I don’t think she’s not the hired help.

  “Is this Mrs Hennessy?”

  “Yes.” I hear a burst of young children’s voices in the background. Someone has taken something from somebody and a war has broken out.

  Hugo has children. A wave of fury engulfs me and I grip the phone hard. It’s never occurred to me that he might have children now, but it feels so very unfair.

  “One moment please,” she says, then in a muffled voice. “I’ll take this outside, Alison.” The cries recede and I hear footsteps, heels on a hard floor. I force myself to breathe, the way Barb taught me, feeling the breath beneath my nostrils.

  I try to picture her, an elegant wrap dress knotted at the waist. What colour is her hair? Blond, styled straight, a pony tail against the back of her neck? Or auburn hair cascading in waves on her shoulder?

  “Sorry about that,” she says. “How can I help you?”

  “This is Mel Dutton, from the Property News. We’re hoping to do an article on your husband’s firm and we had arranged a time to speak this evening.”

  “Oh? You should call his office then, this is his home.”

  “Yes, I know, I apologise for disturbing you at home, it’s just that Mr Hennessy isn’t at his office and I can’t reach him on his mobile. We have a phone conference scheduled, but I need to change the time.”

  “Hum, Hugo’s away on business right now, he won’t be back until Friday. You need to speak to his secretary. She’ll have his diary. Or try his mobile again. He might’ve been in a meeting.”

  “I’ll do that, thank you for your time, Mrs Hennessy.”

  It doesn’t prove anything. But it doesn’t disprove it either. But I really want Hugo’s mobile number, because then I could call him.

  When Peter’s here.

  I listen closely again for noises in the stairwell, and satisfied, I retrieve the memory book from under the sink and carefully file the pages away. Then I
put it back, and I’ve just finished putting up the metal sheeting when my mobile rings. I freeze. I was sure I blocked my number on both calls, but now I can’t remember. Did I make a mistake? I reach for the phone and breathe a sigh of relief.

  It’s Chris.

  “Bloody hell, Rachel! What’s the matter with you?” he bellows.

  Thirty-Six

  The Bolognese sauce is simmering on the stove. It’s my staple ‘dinner for more than two people’ dish. Everybody loves a good Bolognese and mine is better than most. The trick is in the olive oil. I learned that from the chef at the pub where I worked for a year, taking orders from customers, washing glasses and stacking plates. Simon, was his name, and he insisted we refer to him as the chef, not the cook. As part of our pay conditions, we, being the staff, got dinner, and I asked him once what made his Bolognese so good.

  “You have to use the best quality virgin olive oil, if you can, and plenty of it.” He showed me the bottom of the pan where the garlic and herbs were literally swimming in it. Cooking this sauce is one of the things that I do when I need to feel centred because it reminds me of kind people.

  I give Gracie her bath. I’m so nervous that I’ve timed it so that I’ll be elbow deep in shampoo suds when they ring the doorbell. Then I won’t have to hug him or kiss him hello. Or maybe it’s just that I didn’t trust myself not to strangle him right there and then. Hearing his children in the background today has awoken inside me a kind of fury I haven’t felt in a very, very long time. I’ve been so busy being scared lately, I forgot to be angry.

  In the end, they arrived late, of course, because Vivian is always late. I don’t know how I didn’t think of that. As a result, I’m trying to get Gracie to eat some steamed fish when they come in.

  “Hello!” Vivian's arms are wide open, waiting to be hugged. Gracie runs to her and Vivian picks her up, settling her on her hip. Behind her, Peter is smiling, a bunch of flowers wrapped in colourful paper in one hand.

  “These are for you,” he says, pointing the bouquet in my direction, and with that, even the tiniest lingering doubt vanishes. It’s him all right. I take the flowers with an overly loud ‘how lovely!’ and turn away before he has time to do anything else.