by M. A. Hunter
I take a tentative sip of my wine. ‘Thanks, but there’s some reading I want to catch up on so if anything, this raincheck is a blessing in disguise. I’ll be rooting for you from here though, and then when you’re back I’ll be waiting to hear how it all went.’
Rachel stands and heads back into the kitchen area to top up her glass, and I can’t help but feel that fate has cleared my way this evening because it wants me to take a closer look into Natalie Sullivan’s background.
Chapter Twelve
Now
Ealing, London
After three outfit changes and two more glasses of wine, Rachel left the flat just before six to make the short walk back into Ealing to the local Italian restaurant her parents had chosen. With a fresh cup of coffee and the place to myself, I finally feel like I can relax. I open the laptop and log in.
Having checked my sister’s site for any new messages and not finding any, I open a fresh internet window and type in Natalie Sullivan’s name. The page fills with links to a variety of newspaper and media sites. I click on the top link for the BBC and an image of Maddie’s office block with the erected tent outside fills the screen. I can only presume that the body had already been moved by the time the press was allowed close enough to capture such images, and the thought that Natalie’s bloody and twisted body could actually be behind the white flaps makes my stomach turn. To think that she was still alive less than twelve hours ago, and that neither Maddie nor I knew how the day would unfold…
Sergeant Daggard mentioned that this wasn’t the first time Inspector Marcziesk had been called to try and talk Natalie out of jumping but when I open a fresh tab and type in her name, there are no relevant hits. Maybe I’ve misspelled her surname. Closing the tab, I return to reading the BBC journalist’s take on the story.
Apparently, Natalie was twenty-eight, single, and had a room at a hostel near Kings Cross, which police are currently examining for clues to explain why she chose to take her life. I’ve always found the thought of suicide terrifying, especially since Dad. To be in that position where you genuinely can’t see any other way out… it must be an odd conversation to hold with yourself – trying to determine the method of how to complete the deed. In this day and age, there are so many different means of doing it.
An image of my mum answering the call that day fizzes into my head. Had she suspected Dad was so close to the end?
I remember when I first interviewed Freddie Mitchell. He told me he’d contemplated suicide on a number of occasions as he’d struggled to deal with everyday life after the abuse he’d suffered at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. According to him, three quarters of all successful suicides in the UK are carried out by men, and the most common means was hanging. He said he’d never attempted that but had tried overdosing without success. I shiver just thinking about what would have happened had Freddie been successful. He certainly wouldn’t have seen his abusers finally brought to justice, and he wouldn’t be bringing valuable insight to the documentary currently being filmed about his and the other victims’ lives. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be a bestselling writer. Life certainly would have been simpler.
Scrolling back through the search hits, I can’t see any mention of Sally Curtis so I re-perform the search but including Sally’s name. The first batch of hits still relates to today’s story, but then I notice a link to stories from 2005, and as soon as my eyes see the face of Sally Curtis, I suddenly realise why her name sounded so familiar.
Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.
I remember reading about Sally’s disappearance when I first started to look into what had happened to my sister, and I was trying to find connections. It sparked my interest as I knew the army base well, having visited the tank museum there on school trips. At the time, I remember wondering whether it was possible that there were links between Sally’s disappearance and Anna’s; given the proximity of the sites of where both girls were last seen, it felt like it warranted further attention. I contacted the PC responsible for reviewing Anna’s cold case each year, but a few weeks later he reported that links between their cases had been investigated and dismissed.
Sally was fourteen years old when she disappeared from the army base at Bovington, right on the doorstep of Weymouth. The base – home to close to a thousand military families – is protected by a secured perimeter fence, but from memory, Sally was one of four girls who snuck out one night, left the base through a hole in the fence and went into the nearby wooded area. Sally was reported missing the following day when her frantic mother discovered she was gone. Having phoned the families of Sally’s friends, she had reported the incident to the local police, who acted immediately, given Sally’s vulnerable state.
The website says Sally was one of four girls who snuck out that night. The other three girls aren’t named in the story – presumably for legal reasons – but I don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions to assume that Natalie Sullivan may have been one of them. Sergeant Daggard all but confirmed it in Maddie’s office.
The question is, who are the other two girls, and how will they be affected by news of Natalie’s death? It clearly had a lasting impact on Natalie’s life in the aftermath, so there’s every chance there’s been an impact on them too. Pausing, I pull out my phone and create a draft email; this is the means I use for recording notes, as I always have my phone on me, rather than a pencil and paper.
Uncovering the identities of the two unnamed girls feels like the right first step towards what may or may not be a story.
You need to find her.
It isn’t clear why Natalie was so convinced that Sally is still alive. The way this article reads, the police suspected foul play, though Sally’s body was never recovered. When questioned, the girls claimed they’d gone to the woods to play some game, that Sally had run off into the darkness, leaving the other girls no choice but to return home. One of the girls’ parents claimed her daughter had assumed that Sally had run home and they’d see her at school the following morning. Now that I’m reading the article, I recall why I was so willing to accept the PC’s conclusion that Sally’s disappearance was unrelated to Anna’s: witnesses to the disappearance, the time of day, the proximity of the army base, and the age difference (Anna was nine when she disappeared).
Opening a second article, which seems to regurgitate what I have already read, I find a link to the Bovington base, and open it to learn it is a British Army military base, comprising two barracks and two forest and heathland training areas. The camp is currently commanded by Colonel William Havvard, who is referenced in the earlier story, but when I try and find an image of him, I’m left disappointed. I add his name to the draft email as another item to follow up on.
I continue to scroll through the search hits until I stumble across a piece written in 2015, on the anniversary of Sally’s disappearance. She is barely a footnote in what is primarily a study of children currently missing from the south coast of the UK. There is brief mention of Anna too, along with the photograph that was circulated at the time of her disappearance, but the article is focusing on steps parents should be taking to keep their children safe in modern times. It’s rather patronising if you ask me, though the intention is valid. I know from my own research that there are more unsolved missing-children cases than are listed in this article, but these are certainly the best known.
But how many more children have vanished with no mainstream media attention? It just underlines how challenging it is to keep our lost loved ones relevant despite vastly improved communication tools. Ultimately, apart from me, who would really care whether I managed to track down Anna? For so long I’ve pushed Maddie to agree to me focusing an entire book on my investigation into what happened to Anna, but Maddie has always said that there isn’t enough relevant interest in our story. Can the same be said of Sally Curtis? Had it not been for Natalie’s nosedive this morning, I wouldn’t have even thought about Sally Curtis. Was her suicide more than just giving up? Had it bee
n, in fact, a cry for help? What if her intention had been purely noble: to shed fresh light on her missing childhood friend?
I certainly owe her a few days to poke around and see if I can find closure for those remaining friends and relatives of Sally Curtis. It seems unlikely that she might still be alive; after all, how many fourteen-year-olds could leave home with no money or qualifications and survive? I certainly couldn’t have at that age. Closing the laptop, I’ve already decided that once I get back home, I’m going to make the short journey to the Bovington base and see if any of Sally’s friends and relatives are still there, or whether I can find out what happened to them.
Right now, though, I have a more important call to make. Unlocking my phone, I locate Maddie’s name and dial.
Chapter Thirteen
Then
Wareham, Dorset
Just the thought of being sent to the headmaster’s office had always made Natalie uncomfortable – not that Mr Panko was a particularly scary disciplinarian, but it was the shame in everyone else knowing that your behaviour had been deemed poor enough to be sent to the head of the school. In her time there, Natalie had only once been threatened with such an act – back in Year 7 – and that had been sufficient for her to keep her nose clean.
Louise and Jane had walked side by side behind the detective, leaving Natalie to bring up the rear. Not a word was spoken, almost as if there were no words left to say as they were led out to the gallows. Once at Mr Panko’s office, Louise was invited into the main office with the detective and Mr Panko, leaving Jane and Natalie alone in the secretary’s domain just outside the door. This could have been the perfect opportunity for Natalie to try and siphon information from Jane, but unfortunately the only two visitors’ chairs in the bay were across the wall from one another, with doddery old Mrs Herrington’s desk slap bang in between them. The secretary had worked at the school for longer than most of the faculty and was well known amongst students for sharing titbits of conversations she happened to overhear with the appropriate teacher.
Natalie tried to make eye contact with Jane, even tapping her foot gently, hoping the noise would snap her out of this self-imposed trance she seemed to have adopted, but no amount of glaring and tapping forced Jane to look up at her. At one point, Natalie cleared her throat, but Mrs Herrington was the only one who looked at her, raising an eyebrow in disapproval at the distraction.
Louise had been with Jane for most of the day, but what had they been talking about? The pact between the three of them prohibited discussions about last night, but did that mean Louise and Jane had remained true to the pact? Natalie doubted it very much, so why weren’t the two of them as anxious as her at the prospect of being grilled by the police? Louise hadn’t batted an eyelid when Mrs Engleberry had announced that the three of them were to go to Mr Panko’s office with the detective; it was almost as if Louise had been expecting the announcement to occur… But she couldn’t have known, could she?
Natalie’s mind raced with unanswerable questions, each sparking fresh worry and concern: if Louise knew the police would be coming in to speak to them, had she already planned what she would say in answer to their questions? Had she coached Jane in what to say? Would they stick to the pre-agreed story? Or had Louise suggested an alternative version of events – a version that would leave Natalie facing all the blame for what had happened? But Louise couldn’t know what Natalie had actually done, could she?
‘Jane? Can you come in here now, please?’
Natalie’s head snapped up at the sound of Mr Panko’s voice, his thin frame at the now open door to his office. Louise stepped through the gap and left the secretary’s bay without so much as glancing in Natalie’s direction. Tall and confident-looking, she strode away and headed back to the classroom, and by the time Natalie turned back to Mr Panko’s door, it was already closed with Jane inside.
Louise hadn’t looked upset or as if she had been crying; that had to be a good sign. Maybe it was as simple as the detective asking when Louise had last seen Sally, and she’d stuck to the story: the four of them had walked home from school together, and hadn’t seen each other again until arriving at school this morning. Nobody had witnessed the four of them sneaking out or gathering at the hole in the perimeter fence. So long as everyone stuck to the story, nobody would be any the wiser.
Natalie continued to stare at the door, wondering whether she should swap to the other chair, which was that bit closer to the door; maybe if she was over there she’d be able to overhear a little of what was being said. But to move would draw the unwanted attention of Mrs Herrington.
Jane wasn’t as brave as the rest of them – not that Natalie was feeling a single ounce of bravado at this moment. The four of them had once gone to Sally’s house to watch a horror film that Sally had pinched from her dad’s DVD collection, and Jane had screamed at every tense moment where the killer would appear on screen, and burst into tears at the final encounter between killer and heroine. It had made the rest of them giggle – not that Jane had complained; she knew better than that. She’d always been easily led by the strongest voice in the group, and with Sally gone, that power had been assumed by Louise. If Louise wanted Jane to go off-script then it would happen, and it would explain why Louise had looked so calm and collected as she’d strode from Mr Panko’s office.
Natalie rubbed her clammy hands the length of her skirt in an effort to dry them before it would be her turn to face the music. Was it unusually hot in Mrs Herrington’s open-plan area, or were her palpitations and sweating just a sign of her guilt? Is that why the detective had decided to leave her inquisition until the end? Had she smelled Natalie’s guilt the moment she’d walked into class 9-E? Had she left her to fester, with Mrs Herrington there to record every trickle of sweat that dripped from Natalie’s forehead? The stress was unbearable.
She could just tell them the truth. Regardless of whatever Louise had coaxed Jane to say, the truth was always the best policy, wasn’t it? Tell the officers about why they’d snuck out to the woods, what had unfolded and why she’d fled in terror, flailing blindly in the dark woods until she’d tripped and stumbled and impaled her leg. Yes, they’d all probably be grounded for months, but at least the burden of the secret wouldn’t continue to splice through her every thought. A problem shared is a problem halved according to the axiom, and maybe the same logic could be applied to a confession.
Would the police realise she was telling the truth though? What if the other two then denied it when confronted? What if they said they had no idea what Natalie was talking about, and that she must have made up the part about the two of them being there? The spotlight would then be firmly planted at Natalie’s door, and she would go down in history as the last person to ever see Sally Curtis. If the police then doubted that opening element of her story, they then might question other aspects of it too. They’d assume she was the one who’d made Sally disappear, and then they might lock her up and throw away the key; she could almost hear her dad telling the police how she’d always been such a troubled girl.
The sweat was now causing the collar of Natalie’s blouse to stick to her neck, and the wave of nausea currently splashing inside her was not a good sign. Covering her mouth, she attempted to hide the small belch escaping, as bile began to summon at the back of her throat. Did she have time to tell Mrs Herrington she needed to go to the toilet? Would that make her look guiltier? Natalie looked out to the deathly silent corridor; the toilets had to be a good forty-second run from here, and if she stayed, she was almost certain she’d need to reach for the metal wastepaper bin beneath Mrs Herrington’s desk. The choice was simple: race to the toilets or reach for the bin.
And that was precisely when the door to Mr Panko’s office opened and Jane emerged, teary-eyed, and skulked out into the corridor.
‘Natalie, if you could come in now?’ Mr Panko said.
Thoughts of throwing up instantly evaporated from her head as Natalie stood, the sweat against her spine sure
ly now showing through her blouse and blazer. This was it: stick to the story or unburden herself of the truth.
When Natalie’s eyes next opened, her mind couldn’t make head or tail of the beeping sound coming from somewhere behind her, nor why she was lying in a bed, covered by a white sheet. Was it all a dream? Just an intense terror she was now coming around from? Had the whole thing been a nightmare… sneaking to the woods, fleeing in panic, puncturing her leg, the detective at the school?
Natalie rubbed her eyes. Her head was pounding and her body covered in a sweat not dissimilar to the one she’d felt waiting outside Mr Panko’s office. Of course it had to have been a nightmare. Why hadn’t she spotted the clues sooner? It was almost laughable, and yet the vision had been so intense and so believable.
Allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room, she now realised that this was not her bedroom, and the white sheet covering her was not the purple duvet she slept with every night. Then her gaze fell on her mother, dozing in a chair beside the bed.
‘Mum?’
Cheryl Sullivan’s eyes slowly opened and she reached for her daughter’s hand. ‘Oh, thank God you’re awake.’
‘W–w–what happened?’
‘It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re in the hospital because you fainted at school and bumped your head on the corner of Mrs Herrington’s desk. Because you’d bumped your head and passed out, the school called an ambulance and you were admitted for possible concussion. How are you feeling?’
Natalie felt the blood instantly drain from her face and before she could stop herself, she leaned over and threw up all over the shiny floor.
All of it was real: the forest, Sally, the detective… All of it.